


at the edge

by lifeincantos



Category: Miraculous Ladybug, Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Superhero!AU, also:, and yes - there are definitely intentional misleads & withheld details, miraculous ladybug!fusion, nano 2015, now with editing! new look - same great taste, sort of, still going on new year's 2k18, this will likely be ten chapters or less ??, undecided pairings & minor plot points, we're here for the long haul y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeincantos/pseuds/lifeincantos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We live at the edge of the miraculous."</p><p>Apparently, being a costumed, crime-fighting pseudo hero is a Thing that can happen to you. A Thing that, as with most Things, is not an entity unto itself. Then again, no one expected heroism to be an easy path. </p><p>Somehow, The Protector and Chevalier have managed to make it pretty far, wading through bloggers, human interest pieces, and villains of the week in order to figure out if they can actually do something Good. Capital G. </p><p>❨ alternatively: the urban fantasy, miraculous ladybug fusion that no one asked for. ❩</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Corus is an _always_ kind of place. When pressed to describe it, always is the only word that comes to her mind; it's _always_ there, it's _always_ humming, it's _always_ moving. Always alive. As the night wind plays with the edges of her muted-brown hair, The Protector allows herself to take in the throbbing pulse of the city's heart. Even now cars are still out, buses spew exhaust fumes, apartment windows are illuminated by lights and televisions – all of it underscored by a tuneless whine of electricity and _cityness_ that defies further description.

Slowly, as if submerging herself in intemperate liquid, The Protector begins to filter out the background sounds of Corus. They are as familiar as anything, despite any time spent away, and so dearly held that she can listen to then file away background noise with exponential speed once she reaches a deeper place of meditation.

_I am a clear lake_ , she thinks, and the roar of engines sinks through her and washes away.

_I am the wind around me_ , and the inconsequential lights twinkle into nonexistence – illuminating only private lives.

_I am the trees that bend_ , and the cries of birds and shuffles of rodents dim one by one, becoming all one unheard thrum.

_I am stone_. And all that is left are anomalies.

Or there would be, if there were any anomalies that night.

She tries not to dwell on the unwanted thrill of disappointment that stirs in the pit of her stomach. The routine of meditating soothes every nerve that has ruffled during the day, and the absence of anything wicked is a _good_ thing. Every job (moonlit or otherwise) comes with downtime. It's necessary. It's probably even deserved. And no, the Chamber did not intend her to take Its words literally – _there will always be work for you_. She's got enough acumen to discern metaphors from details.

So she tries to ignore the energy that's practically crackling underneath her skin.

“Why do you look like someone's just stolen the last slice of cake from you?”

The Protector is intimately acquainted with the voice of Chevalier. She has to be after working with him for over half a year, and even if she wasn't she'd been (as he likes to say) _in the zone_. It's no effort at all to parse out the footfalls of allies when you're concentrating on compartmentalizing the world into Enemies and Friends.

“I don't like cake,” she replies evenly as he drops down beside her, landing on his feet after launching himself from the balcony two floors above. She valiantly does not shudder, but she also doesn't look at him until he's sitting beside her.

“Of _course_ you don't. That literally does not surprise me in any way, shape, or form.”

When she finally does take in his face, half illuminated by the city lights not so far below them, his jewel-colored bright blue eyes are glimmering with familiar, expected mirth. His mouth is quirked to one side beneath the dark emerald mask, and the semi darkness of the night has turned his customarily pale blonde hair into a noncolor that's mostly just light.

He is as known as the meditation ritual, and the tendrils of disappointment that had ensnared her fade into nothingness.

“There's nothing wrong with being sensible,” she says. “It might do you some good, you know.”

“Oh _no_.” Chevalier groans, throwing gloved hands in the air and betraying his Knight-looking costume with a comically exaggerated expression of pure upset. “Don't you dare say that word. It reminds me far too much – ”

The sentence dies when he cuts himself off violently enough for The Protector to hear his teeth clicking together. She winces for only a moment, more in sympathy than anything else. For a moment, she wonders if he's going to give into panic. But Chevalier's not so bad at controlling himself; though he does look worried for a second, it passes. His lips twist down, but his voice is nearly back at its usual glittering timbre: a mix of nonchalance and something deep and solid and unfailing.

“ – It wouldn't kill you to lighten up once in a while."

Secretly, The Protector is glad that he does not dwell on the near miss. It's not as much in his nature as _some_ she knows, but he does tend towards the mercurial at times, allowing himself to be caught up in tides of worry and concern that she thinks exceeds what's strictly necessary. And it's not like she's ever been adamant about the whole secret identity thing. She likes their only rule well enough; it's always served to keep them focused and largely professional if they don't know each other outside the masks. But Chevalier was the one who'd brought it up in the first place early into their partnership and carped her into silence on the rare occasions she erred.

“Ah, but why would I want to test that hypothesis when I'm already immersed in danger nigh constantly?” She replies, more than a whisper of humor in her voice. There's something – freeing about the personal limits she can push against when her identity is shielded. The girl she's always been would never be so inclined, but the Hero of Corus and near permanent fixture in every journalistic (emphasis on _istic_ ) publication needs a little more flexibility on her side. Trees that don't bend under pressure will snap, after all, and the show of confidence and gentle, wry humor is sometimes enough to comfort civilians and throw off her foes long enough to open up advantages and opportunities.

Chevalier snorts a laugh, somehow maintaining an impossible air of dignity despite his less than refined chuckle. “Gods, only you would talk like that, Birdie.”

“Glad to be of service to lift your spirits,” she says, smiling faintly at the nickname that feels as comfortable as a second skin when it falls from his lips. Something equally comfortable falls into place when the last vestiges of concern dwindle away, his brow smoothing out as it unfurrows.

“Oh, I _count_ on your spreading sunshine. It's the highlight of my day, Lady.”

“Ah yes, along with the patrols and bad-guy face punching that happens whenever you see me. Sounds like a _fantastic_ time.”

“It always is. Alright, c'mon. Corus isn't going to save itself.” Chevalier lifts himself to his feet, brushing off any errant dirt or dust from the only slightly outdated costume that has been the hallmark of his transformation. She's more glad that the breeches and body armor top are as of use to him functionally as they are thematically. It's true that the designs and epaulets lend a decidedly knight-ish look to support the name of the Miraculous that had chosen him, but he's just _slightly_ too tall for his own good and occasionally succumbs to clumsiness. So it's a stroke of good fortune that, apparently, most of his clothes are steel-sword proof.

Hopefully, neither of them will have to test their transformations against something more up-to-date. Like bullets.

“Want to race? Corus is gorgeous at night from the roofs, and I've been dying to try out some of my more impressive parkour moves.”

The Protector carefully suppresses any hint of discomfort at the suggestion, offering an eyeroll without missing a beat. “As much as I love risking my neck unnecessarily, I'd hate to give any akuma a foothold by putting myself in traction.”

It seems to satisfy Chevalier. He laughs again, the sound mixing with a playful whine. “You are so frustratingly undramatic, you know? You're allowed to show off those Miraculous powers, Birdie. I promise, I won't be jealous when I see you flying around with the wings I know you have.”

“I'm only thinking of you and your delicate ego, Gershom.” Though its been months since he's come to accept and appreciate her own nickname for him, The Protector is still glad to see that Chevalier only smiles at the reference to Corus' famous, ancient knight.

“The kindest Lady I've ever encountered,” he replies in mock solemnity. “But one day, Birdie, I know you're going to fly and I'm telling you, I'll be nothing but proud. And right by your side, though you should know that by now.” With a wink and another flash of his brilliant blue eyes, Chevalier drops from the balcony. The drop of his fall and her stop is short and sharp and ends in a shock of anticlimactic nothing. She doesn't even have to lean over to see that he's cleared the one-story dive on his feet, and she doesn't wait because she knows that he's already reaching out to take her hand and help her down.

(“You don't need to do that,” she'd told him the first time he'd reached up to help her off her, admittedly low, perch. He'd smiled, rolled his eyes, and kept his hand in place.

“I never do anything I don't want or have to do,” he'd replied.)

When they are on the ground of level of Corus, they stick to the shadowed corners and long, loping alleys. The city opens up to them, conveniently placing mouths to alleyways and deserted side streets whenever the need arises. The Protector sometimes wonders whether or not the magic that lives in her coin also lives in the paved, weathered roads of her home. The pair of them have been miraculously lucky, if the pun can be pardoned, in the past seven months; it would have been wise to keep to rooftops and balconies (seeing as they both had the skills to hop and jump and leap and still maintain their balance). But outside a few largely comical and non-detrimental mishaps, they've never encountered too severe a problem with civilians or press.

Thank the Gods for small things.

“Did you see anything earlier?” Chevalier asks, falling into place beside her as they nimbly step up on a dumpster in order to clear a low fence behind one of the more industrial apartment complexes.

“Not a thing.”

He considers that for a moment, and she is ready to shut down her swell of disappointment once more until she realizes that his silence is not the contented one. This is the energy she feels when he's thinking just a little too hard: mulling over too few pieces to form a complete picture. It's not entirely frustration, but it's nearing dangerously vexing territory for him.

“What?” She asks, lending him a hand so they can pause on their favored balcony, the one in the park overlooking the bridge and the harbor.

“It's just – I don't want to be that cliched, old movie kind of guy, but don't things feel too quiet to you?”

She knows that he's trying to sound as unfazed as he can. There are edges at the end of his tone she picks up, a little frayed but tied together through sheer stubbornness. Her first instinct, as always, is to allay any concerns. Haven't they _earned_ a few nights off? It's not like Corus' evils (of both the regular and paranormal varieties) have an unlimited store of energy. Who just sits around every second of the day, forming _papillion noir_ out of their store of Chaos energy? This isn't some spit shined, squeaky clean cartoon, after all.

But the restless energy under her skin hums louder, demanding to be heard, and The Protector is not fool enough not to listen.

After a long pause she replies, “Yes.”

It's as matter of fact as anything she's ever said, but Chevalier still starts anyway in a moment that leaves her confused about his thinking – not a first, but a first in a while. With a little startle of her own, The Protector realizes that while it's been seven months, it's _only been_ seven months. It always seems so much longer to her – as if she's been doing this for years. Her whole life. As if there's nothing else to her partner, her friend, that she can learn.

(Even though, technically speaking, she knows nothing about him at all.)

(But that's not true. Not even slightly.)

“What – really?” He sounds so amazed that she can't help but laugh, and some of her unease quiets.

“Is that such a shock?”

“Hey, you're the idea - slash - leader - slash - hero person. I'm just here for backup and arm candy.”

The Protector laughs once more, the sound warm and low: a blanket, leaves underfoot in fall, summer rain. “If you say so. But just an FYI, selling yourself short? Not so becoming. What happened to roses and dramatic entrances?”

“Oh no, you misunderstand. I'm not saying what I do isn't _cool_. Or necessary. I mean, if I'm not here then how will the papers get their fill of weekly city – saving antics? I only mean to imply that I'm more than willing to serve as cavalry. All of the glory, none of the pressure.”

His voice is carefully constructed into lightness. The Protector wonders if he's aware of just how transparent he truly is: if he knows how pronounced and omnipresent his quirks are. Probably not. She imagines that she'd be surprised by him far more often if he knew. That's fine; The Protector has never liked surprises.

“No pressure at all,” she mock – agrees breezily, waving a hand at him. “Is that why you insist on taking those hits for me? Things getting too dull for you?”

“Ah –...” He stutters to a halt, lips moving for a few moments after he stops speaking. It's not a strictly taboo subject, not like others she can mention, but the words have never seen light before. And, truth be told, she hadn't necessarily planned on calling him to carpet for that quite yet. Not when they're still alive and whole and he hasn't proven to be completely bereft of his better judgement.

“Relax,” she offers, gently bumping his shoulder with her own. “I know how much men value their chivalry. It probably goes double for knights, right?”

“You –”

But she's already launched herself forward, springing into a practiced roll before practically skimming across the edge of the park. Chevalier spends a few moments stuttering in her wake before following – sprinting a few steps in order to catch up with her.

“You don't play fair,” he whines.

“According to you.”

He clears his throat, a noise she knows that's only intended to convey his mounting impatience. “Back to the matter _at hand_.”

“The matter _at hand_ has already been stated. I agree with you. It's been too quiet. Did you have any suggestions to remedy that?”

From the corner of her eye, she watches Chevalier shrug, then struggle to find the right words to phrase whatever it is he wants to say. It takes him the entire length of the park and the back path under the bridge to finally figure out how to give voice to what must be a maelstrom of thoughts rattling around in his head.

“We need... resources.”

“ – Resources?”

She's ten paces ahead of him before she realizes that he's slowed to a stop and she has to backtrack. The shadow of the bridge cuts a blacker swath into the night, one singular light from the metal framework visible from this angle. It casts a strange, grey looking shadow over the area beside them and lights up only half of Chevalier's face. When the deep emerald leather of his mask reflects a dull shine, something unidentifiably haunting shivers down her spine.

“Resources. We need a way to – listen to the things we can't hear right now.”

“... Okay?”

He stares determinedly at the ground, gloved hands uncharacteristically fidgeting – fingers twisting, locking, interlocking, letting go of each other. Impatience stirs for the second time that evening; if he has a solution, he needs to get over this ridiculous lapse in his usual mannerisms and find his words –

– _Oh_.

“Don't say anything else, okay? And before you get all – how you get, I'm not mad.”

At her words he looks up sharp enough that she nearly winces in sympathetic whiplash. It only takes a moment of hesitation before he snaps his jaw shut and nods.

She steadies herself with an even exhale before continuing. “Just nod or shake your head. Do you have a way to find out this intelligence?”

He nods.

“Legally?”

He pauses, then nods more meekly.

“Do you want to keep it a secret how you find out?”

His nod returns with gusto.

The Protector crosses her arms against her chest and mentally assesses the facts laid bare. He has a point – they _do_ need more intel. If the Papillion has found a way to work without outwardly disrupting the usual hum of the city, they need to know before anyone is endangered that they would have been able to save otherwise. And if he can figure this out without breaking his self imposed rule of discretion, then she has no substantive arguments.

And besides, she's ninety nine percent sure that he can't be any younger than she is.

“ –... You'll be careful?”

He smiles, nods, then defies her instructions to add, “Always.”

“I told you to be quiet,” she reminds him, trying not to smile back.

“My sincerest, deepest apologies. I will make sure never to disobey a direct order again, cherie. Would you like to take the lead, Protector?”

Her gentle punch to his shoulder is met with a facetious holler of indignation that echoes in their wake as they slip back into Corus' shadows, disappearing into the night.

* * *

It's just past 3:45 when The Protector slips through the strategically unlatched window of her apartment's first floor bedroom. A quick glance out into the living room assures her that there is nothing out of place. No frantically placed post it notes line every available service, the phone line is still on the hook, and the lights are off. Her phone lacks any increasingly frantic text messages. Though she can't hear it, she imagines her roommate's quiet breathing coming from the darkness of his bedroom. He hadn't noticed her late-night absence, then. All feels well, and the distracting, nervous energy starts to seep from its place of residence in the very marrow of her bones.

The weight of her concern is only noticeable by how light she feels as her transformation is called back into her Miraculous. There's only the slightest motion from the gold and enamel pendant on the chain around her neck, leaving Keladry Mindelan standing where The Protector had just been.

Now in her regular clothes and without a mask, Kel exhales silently, allowing a faint smile to linger on her lips. No, they did not eradicate any akuma tonight, nor did they make a dent into their search for Papillion. The world is still too quiet, too large, too maddeningly unreadable.

But she is alive. To the best of her knowledge, Chevalier has also remained intact in the half an hour that has passed since they parted ways for the night. The population of Corus sleeps on, unaware of the dangers that have taken root, but still safe for at least one more day.

Sometimes, the small things are all you have.

Kel sinks into her desk chair, elbows propped up in front of her as she pulls the necklace off of herself. Now that the transformation has been taken back, the coin at the end of the change looks remarkably ordinary. She twirls the chain gently between her fingers, and the metallic edges of the coin catch a little of the light coming from the homes and streetlights outside of her window. The colored enamel has faded a little in the eleven years she's had it: black lightening to a deep grey, the reds muted, the navy now a gentler blue.

The coin stills and she stares, trying to see it in everything that makes it special. She tries to find some glimmer of the magic that has turned it from her treasured gift to the thing that turns her into Corus' Protector – the thing that has given her weapons and bolsters her strength and whispers answers into her ear when she skirts the edge of failure in any of her supposedly self-appointed missions.

But, as is the case whenever her fingers find the well worn gold face of the coin, the only thoughts it brings to mind are the memories of Yuki's eyes as Kel pulled away from their embrace on the tarmac as her mother beckoned her onto the plane. Roald's entire countenance lifting, animated with curiosity as she explained its origins, and then went on to talk at length about Yamani when he pressed her for more information. Cleon's compliments about it, Neal's long winded explanation of the traditions associated with gift giving on the Isle and beyond, Lalasa's cooing at its beauty then her own long winded explanation of why Kel was equally beautiful and deserving of all the gold and more and her promises to embroider her a new closetful of clothes featuring the colors of her coin.

She can't quite see the magic of the Miraculous amidst all of her other thoughts, even though she knows just how powerful her token has become.

But the small things have often been enough for her.

It would be a picture perfect moment if her clock's digital numbers hadn't rolled into a blaring 4:00 during her contemplation. Rumination on matters of the heart and mind will have to wait until _after_ her class in five hours. Kel pushes away from her desk, and barely manages to toe off her shoes before falling, full clothed, into bed.

Her final thought of the night is that she hopes she's not the only member of her two person team that has to lose sleep to sustain a double life. It's meant to be playfully vindictive, but she falls asleep smiling, hand wrapped around her coin, and dreams of running through the streets of Corus after nightfall, not alone. 


	2. Chapter 2

Kel wakes to the smell of coffee, and she has never experienced anything so heavenly. Or, well, not since some point last week when her roommate had spent exactly one day one his plan to “reinvent himself” and “turn over a brand new leaf” before losing himself once again to the maelstrom that constituted his graduate studies. He had one of those breakdowns about every two months, and while she was well aware that taking advantage of his academia-induced frenzies was just as cruel as tricking a dog to believe you'd thrown a ball you hadn't, he made a pretty killer full breakfast when he was stressed. Living with guilt (and occasionally replacing the oven door) was a small price to pay for smoked sausage.

It took her longer than usual to really rouse herself. Waking at 7:30 had granted her a little more than three hours of sleep, which wasn't the worst she'd gotten. But the comfort of her reassurances had faded with the arrival of the morning sun, its light burning through the pleasant, dream spun haze of counting her small blessings. Now she's left with that aggravating, unsettled feeling of things left unfinished. Kel sits up and twists her fingers into the top sheet of her bed as her thoughts spin out to Corus – and then to Chevalier.

She has made a distinct point of not thinking about Chevalier when not in her crime fighting guise. Or, at least, when she doesn't have to. Rarely, but still occasionally, some crisis or another will pop up and she'll have to formulate a plan on the fly as she looks for a place to hide her transformation. But she tries to be good and respect his wishes. If he wants to stay hidden, she won't probe. She won't even think about it.

But his words are still circling her thoughts like water refusing to go down the drain. _We need a way to listen to the things we can't hear_. That is a distinctly unmasked sentiment. If Chevalier had a way to find out covert information, he would have shared that long ago. Which means that it's not Chevalier who can get the information. He'll have to blur the lines between his mask and his true self, and it leaves Kel a little off balance as she tries to reconcile her empathetic guilt at what will likely be a struggle for him, and the fear of not handling a part of the process herself.

 _I'm happy to be the cavalry_.

She winces involuntarily, realizing too late that it sounds, even in her own mind, like she doesn't trust Chevalier. Which is patently ridiculous. They've worked together for seven months now. She's memorized his breathing patterns, what his silences mean, how to figure out the truth in everything he says, how to feel for his presence and use that in a fight. She knows that every command she issues will be followed without complaint, and that every angle will be covered between the pair of them. No stone unturned and all that.

So why does she still feel so damned _guilty_?

Well, questions can't be answered by laying around in bed. When Kel moves the blanket off, the chill of late fall fully penetrates their meant – to – be insulated apartment. The drawback to snagging a corner, ground floor place with ample windows is the ever present chill that easily overpowers their broken central air and well used space heaters. She has to fight against the freezing floor to find her slippers, and nearly makes the mistake of walking out still in yesterday's clothes in her haze.

Changed, somewhat coherent, and ready as she'll ever be, Kel pushes through her door and quietly edges into the hallway. The expected appearance of her overwhelmingly faithful dog does not happen, which leaves only one explanation. Sure enough, when she hovers at the threshold to the kitchen, Jump is curled up by the now – warm stove, laying at the feet of her roommate. The roommate that is currently cooking what looks like breakfast for the entire Corus Queen's Guard. And parliament.

“Please tell me there's no structural damage to the house,” she says by way of greeting, shuffling over to look over his shoulder at the feast of eggs, potatoes, assorted meats, and fruit. Neal snorts in reply.

“And a good morning to you, angel of the dawn.” His drawl is more sharply pronounced than usual, and while the somewhat uncommon use of an exaggerated nickname makes her huff in the Kel version of a laugh, the out of place occurrence sets her already overtaxed mind off and running again.

When she tries to steal a slice of bacon from the pain, Kel finds herself poked sharply with the pointed end of Neal's spatula and practically forced to their little nook table. The table is barely big enough for a single book, but he piles about seven plates in front of her before returning to his work. It's so charmingly domestic, and so _Neal_ , that Kel lets the smallest smile ghost across her lips before expression retreats to its standard Yamani smoothness.

“So what's the occasion? Trying to soften the blow of bad news? Or did Professor Salmalin reject your proposal again?”

Her voice is purposefully even, and with every word she keeps her sleepy looking gaze trained sharply on his frame. With his back to her, Neal can't see how she takes in every inch of him like a predator would in gathering necessary information: the set of his shoulders, the minute movements of his spine, the way his getting – a – little – too – long dark brown hair moves when he shakes his head or moves to the other burner. There is a certain tightness to his movements, as well as underlying tiredness that she feels the need to label and place before the worry she's fantastic at hiding bubbles too close to the surface.

“ _Ha_ ,” he replies humorlessly, flipping an omelet with surprising skill. “If I was trying to give you bad news, I'd get about ten miles away and call. And he can't reject my proposal – there is _nothing_ wrong with my thesis, my research is airtight, and my sources are unassailable. He's bitter and jealous and – other such adjectives because I just so happened to have shot down his latest triumph. He'll be booted off the physics board when I publish.”

“He's tenured,” Kel reminds him.

“He's a jerk and he's _wrong_.”

“Isn't your work theoretical?”

“That's – ! That's _beside the point!_ ” Neal's regained his usual vigor by now, and the familiar cadence of his speech, impassioned and aggravated and still somehow lacking any bite, is more soothing to her nerves than even the presence of Chevalier –

She stops, halfway to eating her first bite of eggs, when she realizes that this is the second time she's brushed up against the thought of Chevalier during her civilian hours. Two times more than any other day she can remember. Two times _too many_. Because once she's pulled on that thread, even accidentally, all her good work at compartmentalizing unravels. Her hand is frozen momentarily on her fork and she doesn't hear Jump's whine.

But she does hear the latter end of Neal's question, and glances up just in time to look absolutely guilty of something she'll never be able to explain. He stares back at her, deep emerald eyes very clearly displaying equal measures of worry and alarm, which don't sound all that different but Kel's known Neal too long to not see how disparately he feels them, and how easily the two can coexist.

Suddenly, Kel wonders if Neal knows how easy he is to read.

“Sorry, spaced out,” she murmurs. Neal looks in no way appeased. And he has no problem telling her exactly how he feels.

“Oh yes, because that's the look of someone who's spaced out. You just – you went white. Completely white! I thought you were having a heart attack – I _told_ you that you eat too many bitter greens! There's such a thing as too healthy, Keladry, and I think you've crossed that line with those weird salads you keep getting –”

It's fruitless to interrupt him, a fact of which she's well aware. The best option is to let him lose steam, which lead to a crash in energy and let her very easily distract him. All of this takes about thirty seconds. He's just rounding on the evils of diced cauliflower when he stumbles over his point (a point which is both metaphorical and symbolic in nature; he can never maintain his train of thought when he shifts from science to literature), forgets what thread he'd been working on, and sighs in defeat, slumping over the stove and poking half heartedly at the medley of things currently being sauteed in the pan.

After a few seconds of silence (and Jump's faint whuffling), Kel puts her fork down and says, “I am sorry for scaring you. I was just... thinking about a dream I had.”

“Oh?” He sounds a little reproachful, like he's trying to hold back his curiosity. But she knows exactly where to strike; Neal can only hold back his inquisitive, and mother henning, nature for so long before he cracks. As much as he'd like everyone to think it so, Pride is not his deadly sin.

“Yeah,” she continues, finally biting into her sausage. It's just as heavenly as she remembered, and the less deep part of her mind wishes he was this good at cooking non breakfast foods. “I can't remember most of it. But I was... up high, I think.”

“I'm sorry,” Neal replies – quickly, earnestly, large eyes slanting with an honest kind of care that never fails to pierce Kel to her core. She shakes her head.

“No, it's fine.” The dream hadn't been a lie, but the feeling of soaring up high – it hadn't inspired the terror she was adamantly sure it would. _One day, Birdie, I know you're going to fly and I'm telling you, I'll be nothing but proud_. She worries at her bottom lip, pushing the remnants of the dream aside. “The weird part was... I was talking to someone.”

“Up high?”

“No. After. I knew them, in a way. But they looked... I know I knew them, but I don't know who they are. Were.” It's not entirely a lie; she _does_ know Chevalier's face, and she _doesn't_ know who he is. “Everything we said was fine but I... it left me feeling strange. I know – in the dream, I knew that I trusted them. But I was also worried. I think. Except I don't know what I was worried _about_.”

Neal can't have any possible idea what she's talking about, and she's couched it all as a vague, hypothetical, fake dream, but merely saying the words aloud has done something to the pressingness of it all. Her hands aren't shaking, her throat doesn't feel as tight. She even takes another bite of her eggs with verve.

She hadn't noticed when Neal stopped moving his spatula around, but the lack of scraping noises draws her attention, a flicker of concern return as she waits for him to mull over her words.

“Well, are you fighting with anyone in real life? Or worried about someone?”

Kel pauses, trying to sweeten the lie before it passes through her lips. “Not that I know of.”

“Hunh.” Neal shrugs, returning to his ministrations by slowly moving his spatula through the mess of vegetables and eggs he'd been so focused on not too long ago. “Maybe you are and you don't realize it. If you figure that out, you could figure out your dream.

“Yes. You're probably right.”

“I'm surprised you were dreaming at all. You look rough, I thought you'd had a late night.”

Kel freezes again, but not so dramatically this time around. Neither Neal nor Jump notices, and she forces herself to breathe silently until her frazzled nerves settle. _Had_ he heard her come in? It would be nigh impossible to explain why she suddenly found it necessary to eschew doors for the conveniences of jimmying her bedroom window open and slipping inside.

“I – I'm sorry. Did I wake you? I was tossing a lot.”

Every time her pulse thuds in her throat, it whispers _lie, lie, lie_. None of her discomfort abates until Neal turns around to look at her and cocks his head. “Hm? No, I didn't get back until early this morning.”

Well. 

“Oh. –... Wait, _what_?”

It's his turn to sigh, and he drops the spatula gently into the sink before pressing both palms against the lip of the stove. “Just some family stuff I had to take care of.”

“In the middle of the night?” She hadn't intended for her tone to be so sharp, but she's already mildly on edge and full of coffee, and as much as she likes to think so, she isn't truly Yamani. Their complete control over their emotions will never be hers. A few slips are allowed.

Neal flinches. 

“Yeah. Kind of an emergency. – Not that anyone's sick or hurt or anything, I just needed to talk to my cousin about a project my dad's working on.”

Kel adds her guilt over upsetting Neal to the pile, and is now numb enough to her own shame that she pushes through it to ask, “Oh, you saw Dom?”

Neal snorts. “Don't sound so enthusiastic. It wasn't Dom. It was my uncle Glasidan's kid, Teodorie. Teddy, I think I've mentioned him before?”

“Who... oh! Yes, the officer of the Provost?”

“Well, one of them.” Neal punctuates his statement with a laugh. “Yeah, him. Just needed to talk to him about a few things.”

“All _night_?”

He rounds on her properly then, quirking one wickedly slanted eyebrow and twisting his lips into a sardonic frown. “Are you seriously trying to mother hen to me? Mindelan, I have _perfected_ the mother hen.”

“I thought you've always said that repetition within the span of three or fewer sentences was the hallmark of an uneducated mind?”

“ _Kel_.”

He glares at her, she almost laughs, turns back to her food and realizes that he very nearly derailed her.

“Hey,” she says, sternly setting her fork down and folding her arms against her chest. “You think you're sneaky, don't you? Why did you have to see Teddy until this morning?”

Neal pouts and Kel feels at least a little vindicated. “He's really busy, Kel. I went there for dinner, and wound up staying to work on getting my dad his information. It's not _that_ weird, you know. He's still family.”

“Ah –...” She wants to say something in response, but Neal is right and that's enough of a world – tipping moment that she's too stunned to reply. Neal, of course, seizes the opportunity to shove a giant thermos of coffee into her hands and practically shove her at the door.

“And that's your cue to not be late for your psychology seminar,” he says pointedly, gesturing at the clock with his chin. She's well prepared to argue that front, but numbers don't lie and the red 8:31 is too vibrant to ignore.

“Annoying,” she tells him.

“Endearing,” he replies, and promptly shuts the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

By the time her final class of the day rolls around, Kel has decided a couple of things. The first is that she's getting nowhere by reacting to every little thing that comes her way. She needs to truly embody her years of training and silence her mind until she's ready to use it once more. And the second decision she's reached is that time when she'll be useful won't come until she finally sheds her civilian identity and finds Chevalier during patrol.

The second decision makes the first infinitely harder.

Only a few people are in their seats for Myles' seminar when she gets to class, so she slips into her customary spot with little fanfare. Kel has always enjoyed the setup of this particular room; it rings of some picturesque movie or old fashioned private school, with graduated stadium seating comprised of rings of two – seater desks on each level. When she'd first seen the seminar room, she'd had the idle thought that it really embraced the collegiate feel that her other undergrad classes were currently lacking.

And it helped that nearly her entire group of friends had gotten into the year-long class with her. On nearly every other day, Kel searches out the familiar forms of Roald, usually at the table beside hers, Merric, Owen, Cleon – or, more accurately, they search out _her_. It's one of those lovingly familiar patterns that feels like it's always been and always will be despite the timer ticking down towards the end of the year.

Today, Kel pulls her sweater a little higher around her shoulders and attempts some sort of camouflage, stopping just shy of tugging her hood on. That would defeat the purpose of disappearing, given how well meaning (and incredibly nosy) almost all of her friends are. If she were to actually give in to her, admittedly not most mature, impulses and hide herself with the hood of her sweater, she guarantees that she'll be positively swarmed by ragtag crew that have spent the last three years following her around like baby ducklings. The thought warms and grates at her simultaneously.

The very second before she drops her head onto her arms that are folded on the desk in front of her, she catches the sound of Roald's voice. Or, rather, she pushes enough out of her self imposed mental cocoon to hear the words directed at her.

“Hey, Kel.”

Kel glances up, and is greeted with the startlingly royal blue of Roald's eyes. It's about the first thing anyone notices – more for their significance than their color unto itself. And every time, Kel feels somewhat terrible for seeing them first. Roald is her friend, after all. It shouldn't matter that his blue eyes carry the significance of the Conté line, of royalty. 

Thankfully, she's convinced that Roald has not noticed that she, too, cannot help that little shock of recognition each time. She smiles wanly up at him and swivels to face him across the short distance between their seats.

“Hey. How're things?”

“They're pretty good. Kally's calmed down a little about the study abroad thing, and nothing else has popped up.”

Kel nods gently, lips pushing out into a thoughtful downturn. She feels for Kally, constantly denied her wanderlust and _joie de vivre_ thanks to her family's prominence. Royalty might only be in name only by now, but she's still a princess. A title that's handcuffed her to responsibility and decorum from day one. Kel can't truly appreciate the pressure herself, but even brief mentions of Conté children's suffering have her twisted up in sympathy. And Kally, with her wild gaze and effortless confidence and wickedly sharp mind - it's so easy to see how she wilts in the soil she's been planted. 

She feels for Roald too, always caught in the middle, but never failing to be so polite, so serene - a perfectly carved heir. Only a few lines of stress mar the corners of his eye – a dead giveaway to his friends, but nothing his parents (or, gods forbid, the press) ever catch. Her lips quirk up, and she flashes Roald a soft smile of understanding and good nature.

“What about you? Anything fun?” She asks. Roald smiles mildly at her in return before shrugging.

Some light leaks back into his worn out eyes, and Kel feels he flagging spirits raise a little. “My father said I could use the apartment for my party. It'll be this weekend, can you make it?”

She doesn't wince at the hope in his voice, but it's a near thing. If Roald wasn't, well, _Roald_ , she might find the whole affair a little too sad. It seems so unfair and unfortunate to get this excited over a tiny, already belated birthday get together. Particularly since Roald is – well _he is Roald_. His name's practically a synonym for gentility and kindness and all that upstanding stuff. But then, Kel's never met anyone so grounded and reasonable, and it's that that allows her to let happiness take over where sympathy would have resided.

“Sure. Just text me the details. Though to be fair, Neal won't let me miss it.”

“Miss what?”

Kel leans to the side and catches a glimpse of brilliantly red hair from behind Roald. She waves in greeting, a gesture that Merric returns once he's dumped his books on his desk and settled himself.

“My party,” Roald tells him, and they share a look. For a few moments, Merric stares at him blankly while Roald waits for him to fit the pieces together. The payoff is worth the wait; when he finally realizes what's going on, Merric's smile is a hundred watts brighter than anything Kel or Roald could ever manage. His brows furrow into something wicked looking and he claps a hand on Roald's shoulder.

“We have to plan. You give me the guest list right now, I'm picking out music and – we're gonna need a bartender. My cousin's great at alcohol – oh! You know who has the magic mix drink touch? Fal! The last time we went out – well let's just say I have some stories, okay?”

Roald lets Merric go on, and the more he talks the more Roald's expression softens into an easy sort of happiness that looks genuinely unencumbered. Kel's enraptured by how something as simple as a delayed birthday party can have such an ameliorating effect on everyone it touches.

Myles has finally arrived, about five minutes late which is par for the course, and Kel catches a glimpse of Neal sneaking in behind him. Not that he would have to – for a doctor and a professor, Myles is strikingly lenient on all matters of classroom decorum. Though that _is_ fair, considering how difficult a grader he tends to be. His course tends to weed out the less dedicated by its very nature, and Kel has come around to the way of thinking that if you can do the work, your attendance isn't of much consequence.

Still, she suspects that the outstanding record most students here have is more due to the fact that Myles is just about one of the best lecturers in Corus University.

When Neal slinks his way into his seat beside her, it only takes one quirked eyebrow on Kel's part for him to shoot her his patented sheepish grin and cycle through a series of incomprehensible hand gestures. Even though, as soon as he finally gets a word out, Kel understands entirely.

“Library,” he finally murmurs, and she just knows. She can almost hear the rambling explanations rolling around his mind – how he'd researched some obscure poet or scientist or scholar of any kind and just _had_ to follow the rabbit holes in the warren for one gods forsaken reason or another.

“I get it,” she says, putting a hand up. 

As she'd expected, his expression turns from comically bemused to comically offended. Before he can expound on just why his findings are the most important thing he's discovered in his entire life (or why they will be until he finds some other train of academic thought to latch onto next week), Roald interrupts him.

“Neal, party this Saturday.”

He gives Roald the same blank look Merric did, but recovers far more quickly. His grin grows just as large, and for a moment Kel is struck by the neat symmetry of the pairs of best friends sitting side by side.

"Seriously? Your father finally caved? Is it at the estate?”

“Nope.” Roald's lips tighten a little, but there's no hint of stress in the action. They look like little barricades against the flood of excitement already spilling from his lit up eyes. “At the apartment.”

Neal's reaction is immediate. He's practically bouncing in his seat, leaning somewhat intrusively over Kel to see Roald in his entirely. Kel's a good enough sport about it, backing up so that Neal isn't entirely in her lap. The willingness might be for Roald's sake. The apartment is kind of a big deal. A dinner at the estate would be stiff and uncomfortable – dining with a king is bound to be tense no matter the situation. But the apartment, which technically belongs to Roald always, is a safe haven. No royalty, no academic worries, nothing but the party Roald _should_ have been given a week prior on his actual birthday.

“Excellent. Merric, are you on music?”

Merric, who's been scribbling furiously in his notebook for the past five minutes, nods. “Already drawing it up. I'm thinking a pretty upbeat mix for the drinking and dancing, and a slower break towards the end.”

“Sounds good. You're the maestro, after all. Who else is coming?”

Roald pauses, a little lost in the frenetic pace of Merric and Neal's conversation. “Ah – just the usual people. You guys, Cleon, Owen –”

“Merric, you're going to have to –” Neal starts to say before Merric cuts him off with a nod.

“Owen – proof the house. I'm already on that too.”

Roald makes a whining sound in the back of his throat, so quiet they all almost miss it. “Guys, he's not _that_ bad.”

Kel pointedly looks down at her desk while Neal and Merric gape at their unfortunate, confused friend. “Not _that_ bad?” Neal pushes incredulously, looking towards Merric for backup.

“Do you remember the dance off from last Halloween that wrecked half my place?” Merric adds.

“Or the capture the flag game that lasted six and a half hours?” Neal asks.

“Or the parkour thing?”

“Or _**Operation Dogstar**_?”

They collectively wince at the last mention. It's not easy to forget the time they had to help Owen escape the police after trying to liberate thirteen dogs from the local pound, so they've all been very active in the suppressing of that particular memory. Even a glancing aside at the topic has Roald sighing heavily, putting two hands up in the international gesture of surrender.

“Okay, okay. Owen proof my place.”

The party planning continues until Myles abruptly rolls into his lecture without announcing anything. All eyes snap to the front, glimmering with the kind of academic intensity that Kel has seen nowhere else but in this room. Myles' voice is engaging and lively and not at all dulling, but she still finds herself drawn into the cadence of his tone without hearing most of what he says.

She tries, she really tries, to keep her thoughts trained on relevant things. When she finds she can't focus on the lesson, she attempts to focus on Roald's party. It should do the trick, it _should_ , but like some unseen, fundamental force is acting on her, she's pulled – unwilling – back to her dilemma from the morning.

With her fingers pressed into the wood of her desk to ground her, and the scratching of Neal's pen against paper providing a comfortable soundtrack of nothingness beside her, she finds herself latching onto the problem of Chevalier. Or, more accurately, _her_ problem with Chevalier.

One truth: she trusts Chevalier. In fact, there is no better word to describe how she feels about him beyond _trust_. If she has to quantify it, she can list off the number of times she's let him guard her back, or followed his lead into battle, or granted him favors. What he needs, she gives. What she needs, he gives. They work. They trust.

Another truth: she is uncomfortable with the idea of not knowing what Papillion is up to. As much as she hates the idea of admitting that she does, in fact, have an arch rival, like something out of a comic book, she does. Papillion has been attacking the city for as long as she's worn the disguise of The Protector, and has been trying to gain a foothold of power through the destruction of Corus. And even though he's so bold as to possess innocent minds through his _papillion noir_ , no one can seem to track him down. Not the Queen's Guard, not the Provost's office, and not Corus' masked heroes. Their only clues are the attacks and violence. When that goes...

When that goes, they lose any leads they might have found.

Which has to be one of the cruelest, most unfair things she's ever thought. They _need_ Papillion to make a move. Without his initiations, they can't root him out. But when he does do something, thousands are put at risk. And there are some scars that not even the magic of The Protector can fix.

A last truth: she's well aware that Chevalier will come through. That he won't be stupid, that he'll get what they need, and they might even get closer to Papillion than they had ever been before. Even if they hit a dead end, they'll keep working, keep fighting, keep moving forward until something gives.

So why does she feel like she's not doing _enough_?

 

* * *

 

“On your left!”

The Protector rolls hard to the right, narrowly missing the crackling burst of energy that lances through right where her head had just been. She drops to one knee before springing up to take temporary shelter from the onslaught behind one of the few pillars still remaining in the university courtyard. Her heart thrums, thready in her throat as she looks at the blackened scorch mark on the wall where the flare made contact.

 _Close shave_.

“Can you distract him?” She calls as Chevalier lands ten feet away, ducking behind a once-well-groomed hedge that has been decimated by their current rival's surprisingly devastating powers. Chevalier catches his breath and shakes some of the soot from his hair.

“I'm _trying_. He's not biting. I'm thinking of revising my stance on video games. Apparently they _do_ make you wantonly violent.”

The Protector glances up, taking in the sight of the slow moving but gigantic akuma - possessed man. He does look like he's just walked out of one of those heavy duty video games, complete with armor and guns and an entire array of weapons that she does not want to see him use. It's been quite a while since anyone they've faced has made her feel small. But her suit's usually calming pattern of sky blue and muted brown seems so small in comparison to a half giant equipped with electricity producing machine guns.

“Can you at least push the fight away from the school?” She asks, still keeping on eye on their target.

Chevalier looks ready to protest for a moment, but he nods and from her periphery she sees him steel himself with a breath and a roll of his shoulders.

“Yes. Don't take too long though, alright?”

“I won't.”

And he's off, silently rolling as far away from her hiding spot as he can before making enough noise to catch the giant's eye and force him into a battle that pushes him to the expansive park and away from both the school and the street. The Protector's heart twists for a moment with unidentifiable feeling, and then she's all business. Pressing one finger to the Miraculous coin pressed between her chest and her suit, she gathers her energy and follows the familiar path through her mind – like squeezing herself through a pinhole, except she's not squeezing. Her consciousness files through some tiny space, easy as water going over a falls, and when she comes out the other side she can feel the difference on her mask. It's gone from its carefully sculpted, second skin feeling to something softer.

 _Griffin feathers_ , her Miraculous once explained to her through that still confusing mental link they share.

She's been told that her mask also shifts color, from that robin's egg blue to a fiery orange. But she's never seen it herself, and even if she did it's not like she'd recognize anything distinguishable either way.

As soon as the mask has transformed, The Protector wastes no time. If she draws on this miracle too long, she'll drain her energy. Energy that she's going to need if this fight shapes to be as long as it seems to promise it will be. With the changed mask, the world shifts. Things blur and fade – the giant and Chevalier glow with yellow and emerald magic respectively, though their specific forms are nothing more than ambiguous people-looking shapes.

She scans the giant's body, looking for anything fuzzy, fading or – _there_. When he lifts his arm, there is an exposed area that's the same shade of grey as the non magical world. A flaw in the plan, a kink in the armor. And when he turns, the wire wrapped around his right wrist burns with a different feeling. She knows that, with her regular sight, the red painted wire blended in with the rest of his outfit. Now it stands out, a deep, pulsing black that's more of a thing than a color. Like a tiny black hole, pulsating in place.

The moment she ascertains her targets, she lets go of the miracle she'd been holding onto and both her mask and the world shifts back into full color and focus. She takes one deep breath then springs, lithe and quiet, into a sprint. She vaults over the rubble of benches and fountains, silently making her way to where Chevalier is currently defending himself with a shield spun from light.

He sees her, but doesn't turn his head or call out. Just glances with a dart of his eyes, then refocuses on the battle in front of him. Still, The Protector knows he's watching her. She stays behind the giant, then lifts her right arm to point out the area beneath and towards the back. _The ribs_. After a moment he nods, and she holds up a finger. _One more thing_. Once he's glancing at her again, she mimes a long chord, to which he shakes his head minutely in confusion. She bites back a sigh and taps her right wrist, then twirls a finger around it before showing him a motion that indicates ripping the wire off.

Chevalier seems to process for a moment, looking back at the giant but scanning more closely, then nods at her. Releasing a breath, The Protector readies herself, maintaining her position directly behind the giant as Chevalier continues to field blows of concentrated energy. She watches as each ripples against the chevron – shaped light shield, causing said light to flicker slightly and Chevalier to be pushed back. He's not going to last very long; using any miracle like that drains his energy. He'll be forced out of his transformation soon if he doesn't give his Miraculous a rest.

Not for the first time, The Protector silently curses the fact that they only have a limited time in their transformed identities. Things would be a hell of a lot easier if every attack they used, every moment they spent in their suits and masks, didn't drain the energy out of their Miracle stones. Switching back to civilian form in the middle of a battle on every level.

But she doesn't have her opening yet. The giant probably doesn't know about the flaw in his armor, and Chevalier is trying to force him into the right position, but the akuma – possessed man is stubborn and strong and seems to know that he has a good thing going with the bombarding tactic.

Likely because he doesn't realize that The Protector is there.

That might be something.

Chevalier will kill her for this, she's sure, but her only option is to surprise him into moving because they're both running on borrowed time and draining themselves unnecessarily. Quietly, she draws on her Miraculous again, and as soon as she calls for it she can feel the cool, solid weight of a long handle forming in the middle of her palm. It's not wood or steel or plastic or anything she can actually describe. It looks like a pattern of light coming to life in her hand, but it feels like – it feels right.

Within the span of a breath, the light has shimmered and stretched, forming a long handled base and flaring into a point at the bottom that ends in a gentle, deadly sharp curve. The Protector shifts her grip on the glaive and opens her mouth to shout.

“Hey –”

There is no warning, just a burst of light right in front of her nose. She can't react, can't move, can't think because one second she's enacting her plan and the next she's lifted bodily off of her feet, into the air, and blown about twenty feet backwards. Without time to prepare herself, she lands in a graceless, stinging heap, missing half of her hearing, most of her sight, and all of her breath.

In the background (the distance, the far distance) she hears... something. A muffled, shouty something. But she is slightly more focused on the fact that she's probably dying. Or, at the very least, irrevocably injured. That will be hard to explain tomorrow morning.

Well, if she stays like this she's _definitely_ getting killed. Moving is – it's not great. She's underwater, clawing her way to the surface to ascertain anything she can about her surroundings. There's not much to go on with the whole _loss of her senses_ thing: she can vaguely make out the tree line to her – left? Probably left. And the hulking figure of the giant somewhere ahead of her. When she moves onto her elbow, the universe tilts sharply and she fights the urge not to vomit. She's not just underwater, she's nowhere at all. The ground has left her entirely and oh god, she's falling – she's falling, _she's_ –

“-- ie, Birdie –!”

Not falling?

Her vision resolves in starts and stops. The previously almost entirely blurry world is starting to look less like an abstract painting and more like a park. And with a pop, something's restored the hearing she's lost. Chevalier's voice is coming in like a radio fluctuating to white noise, and she winces involuntarily.

“Sorry! Sorry,” he says quietly, and she sees (sees!) a frantic line marring the part of his forehead that's visible between the emerald mask and now dirt-strewn blonde hair. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize that he had some sort of camera rig – he could see behind himself, I'm  _sorry_.”

Looking down, she can see that Chevalier's abandoned his shield. Instead of holding it, his empty hands are glowing a fierce emerald color. Two of his fingers are pressed against her temple, and his other hand is firmly planted on her stomach. _Oh. That explains it_.

She takes a moment (a tiny, selfish moment) to bask in the feeling that accompanies his Healing miracle. It's not so much the physical (healing always leaves her a little heady and unsteady), but its his specific talent, his patently – Chevalier miracle. And it's so close and comforting and that for a single, terrible second she thinks she might cry.

But she doesn't cry. As soon as she can feel her arms and move her abdomen without any lingering pain, she pushes away. Right on time too, apparently: Chevalier's hairline is dotted with sweat and he's lost nearly all the color in his face. His token, something unseen around his wrist and under his suit, beeps warningly. Healing takes too much energy, particularly when it follows on the heels of the use of his shield.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, putting her hand on his shoulder. “We're almost done, okay? We need to get the wire from around his wrist. I just need you to get his arm up, alright?”

Lacking the energy to form words, Chevalier nods nonetheless and his expression morphs from blind panic to steely resolve. She pushes to her knee, Chevalier readies himself, and they move.

Except, apparently, the giant had been waiting for them all along. Because the second they pick themselves up, Chevalier takes a burst of energy to the chest and is rocketed straight into one of the massive oak trees to their left.

The Protector hears a muffled, choking sound echo from somewhere that she can't place. She'd thought that they were alone, has someone followed them out here –? Oh. No. When she feels the raw scrape of her throat, it dawns on her that the sound is coming from her. That she's just witnessed Chevalier – that her partner is –

“Go!”

In one breathless moment, she sees Chevalier's eyes open. She can't see his entire face, or where he might be bleeding or broken, but he's alive and –

And he's right. Again. The giant is lifting his right arm, she has to _go_.

It's anticlimactically easy once the giant is in place. Even healed and still dizzy for it, The Protector is fast and sure footed. She launches herself into position beneath the giant, plants her glaive handle down on the ground, steps onto the footholds that appear, and extends the weapon upwards. The pointed edge digs into the unprotected spot, and she uses the giant's moment of distraction to grab onto his elbow and claw the wire from its anchored spot.

In the process of tugging it free, she accidentally rips it in half. Which suits her just fine. The broken ends turn greyish white and from the space they make, a _papillion noir_ flutters free. She catches it one handed, finds her glaive, and drops down to the ground. In a stroke of good fortune, the akuma distracts her from the distance she has to travel. Before she even hits the ground, she presses the papillion to her chest to where it can press against the imprint of her miracle coin. A flash turns the thing into a white butterfly that flaps harmlessly away, and when she throws her glaive into the air it scatters into a much larger wash of light that sweeps over Corus. She knows without looking that the rubble will be mostly put back together, and biggest areas of damage will improve. And though her own Miraculous beeps at her, reminding her that she will change back soon, she has room in her mind for only one single thought.

Chevalier has pushed himself to his knees by the time she arrives and drops down beside him. Her hands find him, bracing gently against his chest and back.

“What's the damage, what happened, what can I do?”

After a few labored breaths, he manages, “You can go.”

She is filled with ice, made of ice, composed entirely of ice because he didn't just tell her to _leave_ , did he? This isn't the end of everything, is it? She can't believe – the last straw, he's finally reached the last straw –

Her thoughts spiral into silence when she feels the gentle press of his head against her own. He's found enough strength to lift one hand up and press it against her shoulder, and it sounds like it's easier for him to speak when she's within whispering distance.

“I'm okay. But you need to go. We're almost out of time.”

“ _Chev_. You can't heal yourself. You told me that.”

“You're right.” He whuffs a noise and it reminds her of Jump so much that she wants to cry, again. Of course this _idiot_ would _laugh_ right now. “But I also told you I'm sturdy. Big stuff isn't so big when it hits me. I'll explain – when we're not – like this...”

“Yeah. Yes, right.” She pulls back inch by inch until she's sure that Chevalier is supporting his own weight. “Let me take care of the victim and then I'll –”

The Protector turns to tend to the hapless human that was trapped in the spell of the akuma. She'd hit him pretty hard, which means he should either be passed out or sitting there, confused and terrified as the effects of possession slowly wear off.

But when she looks, she finds no one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I'll ever write a Tortall AU that doesn't include Owen's attempt to rescue thirteen dogs at once. And hey! Look at that - the first inklings of a plot. 
> 
> I'm sure there are plenty of mistakes and details I forgot to miss, but writing eleven thousand words in two days is taking its toll. Ah, the price we pay when we start Nano eight days late. As always, comments etc are loved! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr: http://heartnowblossoming.tumblr.com 
> 
> Find me on Nano: http://nanowrimo.org/participants/shesolvedyou


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Kel does when she returns to the campus is fight the urge to vomit. 

Her very first fight, so many months ago, had been against an akuma that look like it had crawled, quite literally, out of a mythology textbook. The Immortals from Tortallan lore had always been a source of fascination for kids and adults alike. But it is one thing to read about the monstrous, misshapen arachnid like goliaths called Spidren and quite another to face down a woman fused with one, destroying the museum with impossibly heavy silken threads. It had taken one strategic (they decided to call it in hindsight) retreat and two attempts for The Protector and Chevalier to learn the basic mechanics of their newly foisted upon career. Divorcing the akumatized victim from their parasitic _papillion noire_ freed them from its control, and once accomplished, The Protector's miraculously granted weapon could restore the damage from the fight, effectively negating the damage and wrapping up the whole thing in a bow that Kel never thought she had taken for granted. 

She won't make that mistake again. 

After the fight, after the cleansing, the signs of damage were still alive and well and everywhere, fanning out in a radius from the school and extending deep into the forest. After letting go of the transformation, Kel had had to climb over felled tree trunks and deep gouges in the soil to find her way back to the edge of the campus. There was no relief to be found once back, no hope to hang onto when the vestiges of the fight lay all around her as a broken, scathing critique of what she'd done. While some of the building façades had been put back together, shattered fountains still littered the lawn and the wall of fist floor windows wrapping around the library were blown out. 

Now she stops and surveys the wreckage as her heart does a weird, painful fluttery movement in lieu of beating properly. For a long while, minutes perhaps, maybe a quarter of an hour, Kel just stands there and looks. There are people milling around – emergency services technicians are checking on those who were, presumably, there when the attacked occurred, and others (largely students, she notes) are either wandering, talking on their phones, or whispering in small groups – all of it subdued.

Kel swallows convulsively a few times as she watches the wind pick up a few scattered leaves and bits of plaster and dust, swirling them around. A young man in an oversized sweater ( _she had a class with him, once_ ) is standing, as frozen as she is, looking unseeingly at the rubble until his friend puts a hand on his shoulder and tugs him away. Maybe to get checked out or to talk or to just not be here where a tiny little piece of the world was shaken to its roots.

She might have stayed in that exact position for another hour or another day, but then there is a hand on _her_ arm and she glances rotely to the side. Owen Jesslaw's staring back at her, expression full blown with his usual, chaotic mix of too many emotions. There's a startled sort of fear (as opposed to the ancient sadness living in her bones), and flustered worry. But there's also excitement and anger and determination and –

Kel does not hug Owen, but she does touch his elbow in her own brand of affection. Owen comes even more to life, flinging his arms around her, leading her to a mostly unscathed fountain basin so they can sit.

“Kel! I'm so glad you're okay! Were you here when it happened? I couldn't _believe_ how scary it was! That guy looked like he came out of Inferno or Sworn Oath or something! Like _right_ out of a video game! He totally tore the place apart – were you here? Did you see?”

She follows the conversation mostly because she's trained herself to follow Owen over the years. And it's a good thing too, because there's no chance she'd be able to keep up otherwise. Not when her mind's in about ten different places, all of them requiring all of her attention.

“No,” she replies, “I wasn't here. I heard about what happened, so I came.”

Owen nods, almost frantically. Or, what would be frantically if he wasn't Owen. “Yeah, yeah. You should check it out! I got some great footage!”

“Owen –...”

“ _Seriously_ , Kel. Here.” He unceremoniously shoves his tablet into her hands, his blog page already up, and presses play on the video at the top of the site. Kel does not need to look. Kel does not _want_ to look. But if she's ever described herself as an immovable object (which she hasn't) then Owen is undoubtedly the unstoppable force. She's not keen on finding out what will happen if she refuses. (Though maybe a little selfishly, it's because she does know what will happen. And because she's tired of breaking hearts, which is all she seems to do these days.)

It doesn't start off with any surprises. There she is, utterly recognizable to herself. Her suit is the same as she remembers: the boots and trousers a rich, earthy brown underneath the deceptively thick, sky blue tunic edged with cream colored seams. It's impossible to tell from the shaky footage how sturdy the material is – how it acts like body armor and shields her from blows that might take out regular old Kel. Her mask is of the same color, clinging like a second skin to her face. And beneath that mask – it's herself.

Kel wonders what Owen sees when he looks at The Protector. What everyone sees. She's never asked, never sought out that information willingly. In fact, she usually tunes out or turns away when discussions among her friends turn to the masked duo. Then again, it's not like she'll ever know for certain what the world sees when it looks at The Protector. That's the magic of the Glamor at work. It's dead useful, given how unrealistic it would be to expect that no one would recognize her with just a change of clothes and a mask. She's grateful, honestly, that with just a little pull on her Miraculous' energy she looks like a completely different person to the outside world; she's grateful that everything changes, from the color of her hair to the width of her shoulders, even though she'll never see that disguise herself.

And she's never felt any desire to find out what her own Glamor looks like.

(And she's never wondered about Chevalier either. Because he asked her if they could stay secrets and she's been good, so good, at keeping that promise. Even though if she knew – if she knew, she could have _stayed_ when his hair and his eyes and his height changed back: she could have stayed and made sure that he was okay, that he wasn't hurt too badly, that he would live –)

The battle she'd just experienced plays out in high quality on the screen, ending when Chevalier draws the giant towards the park. She expects that to be the end, but the footage doesn't stop and she finds herself watching as the wall sporting multiple scorch marks, the outer wall of the library, groans and collapses.

Not all of it goes, but Kel is completely frozen and sporting an unreadable expression as she witnesses the bricks and stone and mortar give out. No one seemed to have suspected it; The Protector and Chevalier had left with the giant at least thirty seconds prior, and as the pieces shake loose and tumble down to earth everyone in the vicinity scatters. That's when the angle of the camera drops, the frame shaking as if someone's running, then cuts out.

“Isn't that wild?” Owen asks, and Kel remembers that he's still sitting next to her. His voice is a mix of exuberance and reverence. “I can't believe it was that bad. There's never been property damage that bad before, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, I was on my way to the library to meet up with Roald and Cleon because I needed to talk to them because Margery let me buy her coffee when I bumped into her this morning and asked her if I could and I needed to know what that meant, and sorry! Off track. Anyway, I was just getting to the lawn when that giant showed up out of nowhere! And Chevalier was already there, and then The Protector showed up! Gods, she's so _amazing_ , Kel!”

“Mmm.”

“I've never been so close to the action, so I just had to get a good video. Everyone needs to see what an awesome job they do, you know? Not that anyone's complaining! But still, we need proof. So I took the video! Then I went to go check on Roald. I'm just going back to him now, wanna come?”

Kel blinks up owlishly at him, and takes a few minutes to process before she nods sharply. _C'mon, you're better than this_. Yes, things are – they're not great. But she _is_ better than this. She doesn't fumble, she doesn't falter, she doesn't doubt herself and what she's doing just because some over powered bad guy decided that he was going to take out his aggression on the prettiest part of her campus. She tried, she's trying – she's doing the _right thing_.

 _I am a clear lake_ , she thinks. Then she stands up and follows Owen.

Roald is not hard to find. He's sitting on the flat stone divider right in front of the library doors while a medic is methodically cleaning what looks like a long gash down his temple. Kel's stomach flips, but she picks up the thread of her mantra once more: _I am the trees that bend_ , which gives her enough resolve to sit down next to him and grab the hand that isn't next to the medic.

“Are you okay?” She asks, words tumbling against each in their haste to be spoken. Roald moves to nod, but winces when the medic keeps a firm hold on the top of his head.

“Yeah, nothing serious. Just some of the glass from the window, it kind of,” he motions with his other hand as much as the position and paramedic will allow. “It's fine.”

“Are you sure? Is he okay?” Kel directs the last question to the paramedic, who pauses in her ministrations to assess Roald's head.

“I haven't finished cleaning the wound yet, but the bleeding stopped quickly and his eyes are responding normally to light. With some rest, and a checkup in a few days, he should be fine.”

Kel's sigh of relief is almost a whistle, a huge gust of air straight from her lungs as she grips Roald's hand a little tighter. “Thank the Gods. You were really blessed, Roald.”

“And I'm thankful for that every day. So mote it be.” They take a moment to stay silent, thanking every force on earth that things are okay in their little corner of existence.

Owen, of course, is the one who breaks the quiet; though to his credit, he does speak softly. “I called Liam for you,” he tells Roald, “Your parents are still out of town, but Liam said he'd call them and everyone else to let them know you're alright.”

“Thank you. I truly appreciate the help.”

Owen glances at Kel, and Kel knows exactly what his expression is trying to tell her. It's not at all rare for Roald to affect the princely cadence that he's perfected over the years. But there are times when it sounds a little strained, a little reserved, and they know that it's his own personal coping mechanism with stress. As the paramedic finishes applying a butterfly bandage to his temple and moves on to her next patient, Owen lunges forward and pulls Roald into a hug.

For a few moments, Roald does a very good imitation of a startled deer. He locks eyes with Kel over Owen's shoulder, but she refuses to save him. In the end he relaxes, gently winding his arms around Owen and murmuring his thanks quietly. When they break apart, some of the tension has bled away from the air.

“Have you seen anyone else?” Roald asks. “They wouldn't let me go anywhere until someone looked at me. I don't know who else was around. I'd been studying with Neal a few minutes before, but he left right before the attack and I haven't heard anything...”

Statistically speaking, the other shoe had to drop eventually. Kel's getting just a _little_ tired of her world constantly twisting and turning and dropping out from underneath her altogether. She suppresses the thrill of panic like a pro and stands, brushing any dust she can find off of her jeans.

“I'll look around for him and anyone else I can find. Owen, stay with Roald and call me if there are any problems, alright?”

“Yes, ma'am!” He replies enthusiastically, puffing out his chest. But his gaze is steady and his voice doesn't waver at all. She nods at him, lets the briefest smile flicker over her lips, then turns on her heel.

She can call him, she probably _should_ , but it feels so – urgent. So last resortish. Her fingers twitch and burn and to soothe them she shoves her hands into the pockets of her hoodie as she winds her way through the few people still getting checked by paramedics. Maybe he left earlier than Roald said, maybe he's home and has no idea what chaos has descended upon Corus University, made all the worse by her own presence. So she won't call just yet – she can look for others first, or try to ascertain news about how bad the injuries. If anyone – if anyone didn't make it out.

As she walks, Kel realizes that while there are plenty of emergency technicians, paramedics, and even firefighters, there are no sirens blaring or police on the scene. They'll come, she has no doubt, but everyone is _quiet_ , not grieving, and that in and of itself is enough to bolster her. She can't hope that everyone is alive, not yet, but what she can do is shove down the mix of shock and shame that has been brewing ever since the fight and focus on the task at hand.

Neal, to his credit, makes it very easy on her to locate him. Not a minute after leaving Roal and Owen, she can hear his carrying voice cut through the hushed background noise of the campus. It's loud and pointed and she almost _sees_ it: full of angles and walls and sharp edges over the low hum of his usual drawl. She hears it, and allows herself the luxury of letting the smile that grows live for more than a few seconds on her lips. It's private and bright and thoroughly smoothed over by the time she rounds the corner to the south side of the library, spine straight and shoulders back.

He's obscured by a gurney and an EMS truck, but she can see part of him and the rest of the breath she'd been holding releases in an only partially aggravated sigh. “Neal!”

When she calls out he freezes for a second, any words he might have said dying in his throat. Then he struggles forward despite the firm, well meaning hand the paramedic presses against his chest. She ducks around the truck and the stretcher and is on the verge of smiling until she takes in her first proper sight of him.

“Kel! Thank the Goddess, I didn't know if you were still at school. Are you alright?”

She hears in his voice that familiar upward tick of frenetic concern, and she wants to answer. But while his tone is strong and his eyes are just as electrically charged as ever, he just _doesn't look okay_. The very first thing she sees is the massive, red mark that mars the entire left side of his face, swelling his eye and traveling from temple to chin. She's absolutely positive that the whole thing will bruise by tonight.

But while the mark strikes her first, it's not the worst of it. There is a gash on that same temple, reminiscent of Roald's, and it snakes down from his hairline to the top of his cheekbone. The paramedic is currently stitching it closed, a row of five black sutures standing out against the pale bloodlessness of the surrounding skin. Below his head, what she can see of his shoulder and chest are littered with bruises and smaller cuts that create a horrifying palette of sickly blue and angry, inflamed red. Doubtless there is more damage on the parts of his body she can't see, the parts covered by the soft cotton of his shirt.

Distantly, Kel realizes that Neal has been watching her carefully, waiting for her to say something. It's a sharp contrast from breakfast that morning (only _that morning_?) when his impatience with her tacit nature hadn't stayed contained. Ignoring his questioning look – ignoring _him_ altogether – Kel turns to the medic.

“I'm his emergency contact and his roommate. What's wrong with him?”

“With – him? As if I'm not right here!” He practically squawks his indignation, but the return to normality does not soothe her one bit. The medic seems to understand, and also tunes Neal out in favor of speaking to Kel directly.

“He sustained some injuries during the attack. A lot of bruising, some lacerations though blood loss is no longer a concern. His pupils are a little sluggish, which is indicative of a minor concussion. He'll need to be observed tonight, either at a hospital or at home.”

“I'm not going to a hospital!”

The medic plows onward, a consummate professional, “The stitches are dissolvable, so he can't get them wet. They'll fall out on their on in a few days. While he seems to be doing alright for the most part –”

“The most part? Kel, please _tell her_ that I'm fine!”

“ – He does have some worrying injuries to his abdomen and torso: substantial bruising to his ribs, and a large burn. No nerve damage as far as I can tell, but it'll require medication to prevent infection.”

“Gods, no, Kel, _please_.”

Also a consummate professional, Kel continues to ignore Neal. “Thank you so much for letting me know. I'll be with him, so I can make sure he gets what he needs. Do you have prescriptions, or do I need to pick them up?”

“I've called them into the hospital. Either he or a relative can get them and get them filled.”

“Alright. Is that all?”

“That's it. He can't sleep through tonight, but as soon as his headache clears and his eyes return to normal he'll be in the clear. If he takes the medication and rests, he should make a full recovery.”

Apparently sensing how invisible he's become, Neal's given up arguing in favor of practicing his champion – level sighs. They're fairly impressive, all things considered, and Kel is having absolutely none of it. As soon as the medic sheds her gloves, gives Kel the phone numbers she needs, and leaves, Kel pivots and levels her very best glare at Neal. He shrinks under her gaze, a fact that she notes with grim satisfaction, and lasts all of two seconds before frantically plowing into explanations.

“Look, it _honestly_ wasn't my fault! I was – I didn't even see it coming! I left Roald to go check in with the librarian in the south wing before leaving, and it just – came out of nowhere!”

“ _What_ came out of nowhere?” She's being short, she knows she is, but if he notices the extra sting in her voice, he makes no comment on it.

“This like, light... thing?” It should be a bad sign that his eloquence is faltering. Kel has never known Neal to use the word _thing_ when he could replace it with literally anything more descriptive. And lengthy. And usually unnecessary. “It just sort of, caught the edge of my chest and threw me into that statue over there. I must have – anyway, the next thing I knew, everything was quiet. I was going to look for Roald when that paramedic intercepted me. Gods _forbid_ I find a stroke of good fortune –”

He says the last with his usual self-pitying flair, but Kel cuts him off with an unyielding hand on his shoulder that startles him into silence. She says nothing, does nothing except hold on, fingers digging in deep, and _looks at him_. It must be a particularly effective scathing stare, because Neal wilts even further, shoulders hunching up and chin dropping as his gaze finally (finally) lowers to his hands.

“I know. That was – stupid of me to say. But we've never seen so much destruction before, and I – I needed to know that Roald was okay. And I needed to know that _you_ were okay, that everyone made it out. But no one was telling me anything. When I saw you I just... I knew that things would turn out fine.”

Kel's throat tightens suddenly and without mercy and without thinking (pulled wholly by the knot of emotions pulsating in her chest), she steps forward and wraps her arms around Neal's shoulders. His instinct, she feels, is to stiffen. But as soon as the shock passes he has her in his arms as well. Though the motion must have pulled against his injuries, he makes no sound of protest.

“ _Are_ you alright?” He whispers. And isn't that just entirely unfair? How is her annoying, scatterbrained, insufferable, stupidly obstinate best friend allowed to sound so sincere? She holds a little tighter and doesn't let go before she answers.

“Yes. I'm fine.”

“Don't lie.”

Kel makes a huffing sound – her kind of laugh. “I'm not. I wasn't here when it happened.” _Lies, lies, lies_. “I'm not injured.” Less of a lie. “I'm just... a little stunned. I promise. Roald's alright – everyone's alright.” That fits much more easily in her mouth; but then, the truth always has.

“Alright. If you say so.” Neal moves to rest his head on her shoulder, and wheezes a self deprecating laugh. “Gods, my head is killing me.”

“Good thing it's so thick. Must have cushioned the impact.”

“ _Cruel_.” But she can feel him smiling. For now, it's enough.

 

* * *

 

It feels like ten years since she's showered, or simply stopped her forward momentum at all. As the hot water (just sort of scalding) cascades through her hair, Kel presses her head against the tiled wall and closes her eyes. Not thinking sounds so nice right about now; she finished cleaning a while ago – this is indulgent and childish but she stays and lets the hot water soak her all the way through. And doesn't think.

Voices drift in from the living room. They're not loud enough to be heard clearly over the rush of the shower head and through a closed door, but Kel can just detect the ambiguous murmur of sound. The television, probably. Despite her best intentions, the corner of her mouth flutters up as she imagines the excuses Neal will give for capitulating and forgoing his books for, as he says, less intellectual pursuits. Kel's not sure what the big deal is – she's been well aware of his love of _Wiltshire Manor_ for a long time. And it's not like he has much pride to spare. But if he wants to keep that secret, she'll let him.

Toweling off is mercilessly awful. The shower's steam did not manage to warm all of the bathroom, and the shock of cold air outside the tub enough to set her off shivering. She uses all three available towels to soak up every droplet on her body, then changes into clothes in a time that would put any world record to shame.

 _Stupid, broken heating_ , she grouses, shaking the last of the water from her hair before stepping into her slippers and moving into the living room.

There's no way to avoid the living room; a tiny hallway (the length of which is about two strides) provides a little cover, but there are no direct routes to either bedroom. Neal will complain, of course, that she's coming back in when he's _fine, look at me I'm the absolute picture of health!_ So it's nice to have the excuse of necessity on her side if she really needs to defend herself.

She has her protests all prepared, but when she crosses the threshold to the common space Neal does not notice her. Neal doesn't notice her because he's not alone. Immediately, Kel's hackles raise; the feeling she gets in the pit of her stomach as The Protector rises to the surface – _my home, my safe space_. If she doesn't live up to her name, if she doesn't protect, then what good is she? If all she does is lure giants onto campus and send lives spiraling into chaos as she dresses up and plays hero –

“Hey! You didn't drown!”

Neal's voice is so unexpectedly light that Kel stops dead in her mental tracks and actually looks at what's going on in her living room. Her roommate is in the same position, propped up against a veritable mountain of pillows with a stack of books and his laptop on the coffee table next to him. The white of the bandages stand out too undeniably in the half darkness of the room, but Kel forces herself to not stare at them.

That's when she sees Dom.

In the span of a single breath, her entire expression brightens and the tension leaves her posture. She carefully, languidly, makes her way to the armchair opposite the pair of cousins and settles herself quietly in the seat.

“Good observation,” she replies mildly, and Dom laughs.

“Yeah, maybe you didn't entirely scramble those brains of yours, Meathead.” He reaches out to mess up Neal's hair ( _gently_ , Kel notes) and Neal takes a halfhearted swipe at him.

“First of all, anatomically incorrect. We all only have the _one_ brain. And second – I believe we established that if you're going to keep using that nickname indiscriminately, in _public_ no less!, you're going to have to put a sir in the front. Due respect, and all that.”

Dom laughs again, a warm and breezy noise, and drops against the back cushions, both arms slinging up to rest on the back of the couch. “ _Public_ , really? You do remember that Kel's known about it for like, two years, right?”

“Besides the point!”

“Sure, sure.” He elbows Neal in his good shoulder before turning to Kel. “So, how are you holding up?”

“I'm fine.” _I'm tired of being asked that_. She keeps that last thought to herself. It's not about Dom – in fact, it's a little easier to bear when it's Dom asking. But that's not saying much, considering how aggravating it is for Kel to see that everyone around her is ignoring the fact that _she's_ the fine one. Roald's injured, Neal's laid up, Owen's – well, Owen might seem alright, but he'd been on the front lines of the action. It's hard to imagine that he got off entirely unaffected.

Besides, fine or not, these kinds of things – the saving things, the ruining things, are Kel's job.

But neither Dom nor Neal is aware of that fact, so she resigns herself to playing along. It feels like a lie and it pulses in agony under her breastbone, but she's doing this _for them_. For everyone. For Corus. Even if she makes mistakes, even if people get hurt, doesn't she still have the responsibility to get back up and get back out there?

“She keeps saying that word,” Neal pipes up, “I don't think she knows what it means.”

“Nice one,” Dom replies.

“Hmm? Nice what?”

Dom groans, tipping his head back. “I'll chalk that up to the head injury, Meathead.”

All Neal says in reply is a quiet, “Rude.”

“I'm really fine,” Kel insists. “I wasn't there.”

“Which means absolutely nothing.” Neal has _that_ look in his eye – the one that never fails to elicit an aggravated sigh from Kel. “It doesn't explain the freak outs today, or why you looked totally shell shocked when you got to the library.”

Kel half expects Dom to say something, but when she glances at him he has an inscrutable expression on his face that she doesn't recognize: lips pressed firmly together, eyes a little dim and looking straight forward. He's not going to rescue her. He's also not going to interrupt.

“I was shell shocked because our campus just got destroyed, Neal. Owen was panicky, and Roald was hurt. None of us could find you. I think those are pretty logical reasons for looking not my best.”

Credit where credit is due: Neal does look somewhat mollified by her reasons. He's never been one to be swayed by her logic, and while that strikes her as at least a little suspicious, Kel lets it go when Neal catches his second wind.

“Alright, fine. Aberrant circumstances – but this is the only time you get to use that excuse, Mindelan. Understand me?”

“Absolutely,” she says, knowing full well that this will not be the last time she uses that excuse. Out of necessity, yes, but the fact that she won't admit she knows is that today's attack was not an exception. Not with the unpossessed giant's disappearance, not with Papillion's silence, not with things shifting between The Protector and Chevalier.

How long can she keep everyone in the dark? How long can she get away with this?

“And that _doesn't_ account for this morning,” Neal adds pointedly.

“Bad dream, remember?”

“Alright.” Dom's final interceding has Kel breathing a silent sigh of relief. For all his faults, Neal is more observant than most give him credit for. He's exercised his brain plenty with useless facts and lists of varying, horrifying, lengths. It leaves him primed to see and discover the things that he really shouldn't be getting involved in. “Let's all agree that today was weird and leave it at that, yeah?”

“An excellent plan,” Kel replies before Neal can interrupt and protest that _no_ , _he has something more to say_.

“My genius intellect and razor sharp acumen are woefully unappreciated in this world,” he moans. Dom cuffs him again, still just as gently.

“Keep telling yourself that, Sherlock. Kel, c'mon into the kitchen, I have to show you the pills I got.” Then, back to Neal, “They gave you the good stuff, buddy, so no worries on anything.”

Neal grumbles something unintelligible as Kel picks herself up from the chair and follows Dom into the kitchen off the living room. In better lighting, Kel can fully see the sharp angles and characteristic nose and warm eyes that make Dom, Dom. But she can also see the signs of weariness that have crept in, creating fine little lines above his cheekbones and beside the corners of his mouth. Were they from today? Or have they been growing over the time she hasn't seen him?

Dom's already talking, placing little bottles and bags in a line on the counter. “It's not too complicated – I already explained it to Meathead, and he promised he'll take them. Which usually means jack all coming from him, but he's not so bad at taking care himself. Just in case, you should probably know what he's on.”

Kel nods, gaze flickering towards the row of bottles. Her stomach does another little flip of – consternation or worry or guilt, or whatever it is. Back at school, the paramedic hadn't made it sound so... much. Some medication, some rest – that's it.

Not that any of it should have been necessary in the first place, if she'd done her job right.

“It looks like a lot but it really isn't.”

Had she spoken out loud? Kel blinks up at Dom, but he's reading the labels, thoroughly absorbed in making sure he's giving her the right instructions.

“Okay, these first two are antibiotics. One's for the burn, the other for the slice. Each one needs to be taken twice a day, with food, and they're a killer on the stomach. So – y'know, fun times ahead for you guys. These,” he shakes another bottle, “Are, uh, some long name I can't pronounce. The doctor said they were for the concussion. I mean, for after the concussion, because apparently even when it goes away it doesn't feel great. He starts them tomorrow, after his pupils start dilating again. This one's anti nausea, so just if he needs it. And then the good stuff!” Dom grins as he plucks a little white bottle from the end of lineup. “Painkillers! When I say good stuff, I mean good for you, by the way. They're heavy duty, they'll knock 'im right out, so if you ever need a break from the whining, slip him one.”

When she finally looks back at him, Dom winks. It's that overly lascivious thing he does – that he's always done whenever she looks a little too put out. It forcefully reminds her of holidays spent with the Queenscove family, nuclear and extended: both Thanks Feasts and even one memorable Yule when Anders was out of town and the thought of going home was just – a little too much.

“Alright,” Kel replies, locking any surge of emotion deep in her throat, forcing it somewhere where it couldn't even see the surface, let alone breech it. She sees the flicker in Dom's eye just in time, and continues before he can get a word out.

“Thank you for coming over.”

He looks like he's about to say something, jaw ticking and throat moving, but after a second of silence he nods and gently pats her shoulder – two taps, then drops his hand.

“Sure thing. I couldn't believe how intense that attack was today. It was kind of surreal – I know I shouldn't say it, but I'm sort of... glad I was off work today. Not that I wouldn't want to help! But if I was in uniform, I couldn't have taken time off.”

Kel nods, understanding. Being a Provost's officer is not the most lenient of positions. She wonders what about the field has attracted so many Queenscoves and Masbolles and other relatives into its ranks. “I know what you mean. And for the record, I'm glad too.”

For a moment, Dom studies her, eyes steady and unreadable. Then they crinkle at the corners and he chuckles, stepping close to nudge her shoulder with his own. “Hey. You look like someone cancelled your Yule. Why the long face?”

She huffs, only a little indignant. “Destruction, perhaps?”

“You know it wasn't all that bad, right? What happened?”

 _That_ is not what she thought he'd say. She must not be doing well at hiding the shock – or it's something he feels he has to say – because he presses swiftly on.

“The worst that happened were cuts and bruises. I checked in with the station, asked about the reports. No deaths, not even overnight hospitalizations. Just some bumps and broken statues. That stuff's easy to fix.”

“But what if next time it's not so easy to fix?”

Gods damn it, she needs to train. The question tumbles from her lips before she can assess it: before she can stop it altogether. Still, while she didn't hold herself firmly when asking, she resolves to remain steadfast now, meeting Dom's gaze and holding her ground. If she asked the question, regardless of whether or not it was a slip up, she might as well stand by it.

“ – You think there's going to be a next time?”

“You don't?”

Her rebuttal does sound a little childish, but Dom rubs his chin thoughtfully all the same, then shrugs. “Maybe you're right. Maybe we all got a little too used to how things used to be – bad guys showing up, spouting their nonsense, then getting their asses handed to them by the Duo. Heh,” he chuckles dimly, looking skyward (or, as it is, _ceilingward_ ), “That's a little strange, come to think of it. Getting used to bad guys at all. But I guess it just goes to show you how resilient we are. Collectively speaking.”

His voice grows more contemplative and quiet as he goes on, weaving a spell of silence and wonder. And then it's gone when Dom laughs, bumping against her again and heading back to the living room.

“So don't look so glum, Squire. We'll all weather this.”

She finally, finally, smiles at the ages old nickname, and under the guise of reading the pill bottles she watches Dom cross back to the couch and settle himself down, shoving Neal gently to the side to make more room. They squabble for a few moments, Dom pretending to check his temperature and Neal flapping his arms in a very convincing impression of a chicken. It ends with both of them laughing – really laughing, the warm kind that lights up emerald and bright blue eyes alike. Sitting there in the semi darkness, lit only by warm indoor bulbs, they look too similar. Something about the slopes of their noses and the way their mouths quirk to the same side when they smile, and with the revelation comes a pang of something that captures her heart and wrenches it to the side.

They look like brothers.

The noises from the living room peter into nothing, and through the quiet Neal's hushed words are just loud enough that, when she strains, she hears them perfectly.

“I am sorry, you know,” he murmurs. From the corner of her eye, Kel sees him staring at his hands. “I didn't mean to – you know I try to stay safe, right?”

Dom sucks in a little breath, which is more audible for its absence of sound, and replies, “I know. It's okay, I know. You've always been a good kid. For a Meathead, I mean.”

“Mmm, you're definitely _mean_.”

Unbidden, Kel's hand moves to the coin hanging around her neck, underneath her shirt, and for the first time that day she feels that the ground under her feet has finally come to a stop. She knows what to do.

 

* * *

 

Knowing what to do and actually doing it, it turns out, are very different things. An hour after Dom leaves and the sun has fully sunk beyond the horizon, and Kel has done nothing but pace, pull at and rearrange pillows, and cluck disapprovingly at Neal when he tries to move.

(“I'm not _dying_ , Mother, I just smacked my head!”

“Then you agree you need to sit and rest, Nana.”)

Watching over her pig headed roommate to make sure he doesn't accidentally kill himself by rolling off the couch gives her the perfect excuse not to call Chevalier. It's exactly the kind of enabling atmosphere that she doesn't need, and by now Kel's getting a little sick of her indecision. And of Neal's antsyness.

So a little after nine she gets up, pulls on a jacket, gives Neal his antibiotic and water, and tells him that she's going out.

“If you roll off of this sofa, Queenscove –”

"You'll resurrect me just to kill me. I understand. Go, go. And can you _please_ be careful?”

There's something a little more pointed in his voice than his usual whine, and Kel doesn't need him to explain himself on that front.

“I promise.”

Corus' nightly chill stirs all of her senses and clears away the cobwebs that have collected in her mind over the course of the day. Out here, where the shadows are as familiar as her own bedroom is, she comes a little back to life. Reanimated, refreshed, and with newfound resolve, Kel ducks into an alley and pulls her coin from around her neck. A little tug on the Miraculous' energy breaks the seal, and the coin glimmers before releasing a pool of light that forms into a ghostly looking sparrow no bigger than the size of her palm.

It's beautifully translucent, seemingly made of light or spun from spider silk until the bird flutters down and touches the skin of her palm. Once contact is made, the sparrow seems to fill with color from the inside out, like some invisible hand is pouring paint in. Phantasmic blue gives way to rich browns, reds, and whites, and within a single moment the bird of light is a plump sparrow, flecked with playful spots and sporting a white plume of feathers on the top of its head.

“Hello, Crown,” Kel greets quietly.

Crown chirps a melodic tune, and Kel hears her Miraculous' words in her mind, _Hello, Keladry_.

“I'm sorry to disturb your rest, but I –”

Crown opens her mouth before Kel is done speaking, but instead of the friendly peeping, a high pitched bell like sound issues from her beak. A beat passes –

“Crown, connect us.”

A circle of light appears just above Crown's head, flat and parallel to the ground like a plate or a table. No image flashes above it, but that's not uncommon. They don't usually use any sort of imaging when they call each other. But it's a damned coincidence that Chevalier's calling her the very moment she finally gathers her courage to reach out to _him_.

It's a natural thing to draw on her Miraculous to Glamor her voice, disguising it for the sake of the conversation; she does it without thinking, even though she wouldn't hear the difference either way.

“Well, this is a surprise,” she says, masking residual worry with her carefully constructed tone of evenness. “Glad to know you're still alive and kicking.”

“ _Ha_ , funny.”

 _Whoosh_ , all the air leaves her lungs in an unexpected heave. It's one thing to trust your partner, or even to know that they're calling. It's another thing entirely to hear their voice – to hear the difference a few hours has made. Her latest memory of him is seeing his sprawled out, crumpled form looking to all the world like a corpse. Now there's no hitch in his voice, no strain.

“ _Chev. You can't heal yourself. You told me that.”_

“ _You're right. But I also told you I'm sturdy. Big stuff isn't so big when it hits me. I'll explain – when we're not – like this...”_

So he hadn't been lying.

“I've always been pretty hilarious,” she replies. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“So quick to forget, My Lady? That's not very becoming of a Protector, you know. I had a feeling you wouldn't want to patrol tonight –”

“You got that right.”

“But I still need to give you the information I owe you.”

They _are_ still on the same wavelength, she notes with satisfaction. “I didn't forget. What did you find?”

“Nothing that we would have noticed on our own, I'm afraid. Good thing you picked up on the fact that something wasn't right. Apparently, there's been an increase of emergency calls to report fake kidnappings.”

“Wh – _What_?” She doesn't have enough time to be stunned by the information she definitely _hadn't_ been expecting. He's already rushing to explain.

“Well, sort of. They're calling them fake. In the past few days, the Provost's office, and other emergency service offices, have gotten supposed missing persons reports. Only when they've gone to investigate, there aren't any usual markers. No signs of struggle, no physical evidence, nothing. So they've been marking them down as false reports.”

“Fake... kidnappings? So, where are the victims?”

“You always were the sharp one.” He says this without a hint of irony, then laughs when she sighs audibly. “Oh hush and take a compliment. That's the thing – everyone's are still missing. The Guard isn't shoving it under the rug, but they have nothing to go on. It's like a bunch of people just up and left their whole lives behind. At the same time.”

“Oh.” _Oh_ doesn't begin to cover what Kel's feeling, but wading through the mess of worry and confusion and getting straight to the tactics will take a little more than a minute and a phone call. Chevalier gives her time, lets her parse through what she needs to while he waits silently.

“I – I don't know what this means,” she finally admits, even more quietly. So quiet that he might not even hear her. “We have this clue, and how strangely calm the city's been... and that out of place that attack was before. Plus, we're going to have to deal with things escalating while we wait to see how the pieces get put together.”

“You think things are going to escalate?”

“I do.” She's even more firm now than she was with Dom. “That wasn't a coincidence. Chev I – I couldn't find the guy after the akuma was destroyed.”

“ – _What_?” He breathes. So he _had_ fallen unconscious for a moment as she was leaving. “That's never happened before. It takes more than a second for the possession to wear off. And no one runs. They _can't_ run, not for a while. And they – not from us, they wouldn't run from _us_.”

“No, they wouldn't.” It's not just reassurance. They have worked their asses off to sew the seeds of goodwill amongst the population of Corus. Chevalier had initially come up with the idea. Kel hadn't seen the importance, until the Guard had given them a free pass when they caught the pair sneaking out of the Gran Procession Palace museum, citing the fact that they were _doing good work, keeping the city safe, keep it up_. When she'd pressed Chevalier on his knowing that would work, he'd scoffed and cited “every superhero cartoon and comic ever made, obviously.”

“They wouldn't run from us. We need to consider the possibility that these disappearance and that victim's are related. And that they both might have to do with the intensity of the attack today.”

“Agreed. So – not patrol tonight, right?”

She blows a raspberry, effectively silencing the request. “Please. I'm still not convinced that you're even able to stand up yet.”

“I take offense to that! I'm fine!”

“So you say. I'll catch you later, alright?”

“Can you at least promise not to go out saving the city without me?”

She actually wants to lie this time, but that's not what partners do. “You know I can't promise that. If I hear something, or sense something...”

“Birdie –”

“I can't let anyone else get hurt, Gershom. Not again.”

He pauses, takes a breath. “That – it wasn't your fault, what happened today. You couldn't have known how much damage that thing was going to cause.”

“But I could have been faster. I could have been stronger – _better_.” She doesn't realize until she's stopped speaking how much that simple fact has been clawing at her, ensnaring her, refusing to let go. When she takes another breath, it's like her lungs can expand a little farther. Yes, she should have done more, and acknowledging that doesn't change how shaken everyone is. But it's something she hasn't been able to admit out loud. Admit to anyone but her partner – the absolutely only person that can understand what she means.

“No way,” he says, and there's a heavy kind of strength in his voice. It's grounding and entrancing all at once. ( _Is that the Glamor?_ She wonders. _Or is that just him?_ ) “Just – I know you're not going to stop thinking like that, but can you try? You do so much _good_ for this city, you fight so hard, you've saved _so many_ people. You've protected everyone and everything and some weirdly strong akuma knocking down a building doesn't change a damn thing. Do you understand me?”

It's not fair – it's _not_. He sounds so sincere that his words find her fleshy, soft parts and dig right in until she feels like she can't even breathe. Kel's thankful that, Glamor or no, they're not broadcasting in a way that he can see her drop her face into her hands and suck in air until she feels steady again.

There is no way that she can reply to all that. It's – there's no way. So she lets seconds creep by in silence before saying, “Get some rest, Chevalier. I'll see you soon.”

“Birdie –”

She hangs up.

 

* * *

 

Her resolve has not faltered, but a few other things have. When she gets back, Neal is still in his spot on the couch, looking world weary and long suffering. So nothing's changed there, and for that Kel is glad. She sits with him for a while, absently watching whatever episode of Wiltshire Manor's he's queued up, and even listens to him complain about the anachronisms and inaccuracies. She dutifully teases him when Alice and Evelyn break up for what he claims is the third time and he gets misty eyed.

 _No way_.

Chevalier had been so earnest in that moment: a tiny, unwavering light in the fog slowly descending on Corus. She can't quite shake that she could have done more; if she doesn't hold herself to a high standard, how will she ever get done what she has to? The city needs her at her best, and if she doesn't confront her mistakes then how will she make sure that everyone stays safe? How will she live up to the legacy that she's inherited?

But maybe there's something to be said for not getting too firmly stuck in the past. Today was strange, to be sure, and almost frightening in its own way. She can't let this happen again – she still has to be a better partner, a better fighter, a better leader. But she also didn't create these akuma. She didn't set loose a path of destruction on the city; if she can lower her head and plow forward, taking down her enemies and looking for work to do, then she might make it to the other side in one piece.

She might even do some good.

“Oi,” Neal says after the episode winds to a close. “You need to sleep, Mother.”

Kel dips her head towards him at the nickname, quirking an eyebrow. “I have to keep you awake.”

“Oh _please_ , not that line. I am in my twenties, I'm perfectly capable of keeping myself awake.”

“You need to set your alarm to go off every two hours, and I need to ask you questions each time,” she replies matter of factly.

“ _Kel_ , c'mon.”

“I'm going to go get more blankets. I'll set myself up in the armchair. If I don't get up, wake me.”

“Kel!”

But she's already gone, slipping into the bathroom to get to the linen closet. Her fingers wrap around machine warmed comforters, the soft ones they haven't used in ages, and breathing in the scent of clinically clean fabric softener steadies her heart.

This was a storm, and a rocky one at that. However, if she's going to take another step, she'll have to shed her guilt and worry and focus on doing something productive. Whether that's figuring out Papillion's plan or solving the mystery of the disappearances or even just making sure that her secret identity remains secret, she can't do anything if she's paralyzed by emotions tangled up in things beyond her control. She's here and alive and that is enough to keep pushing forward. _One step at a time_ , she will use her legs, pick herself up, and walk.

For now, that walking takes her back to the living room. Neal sighs and protests fruitlessly when she sets up the alarms on her phones, and in response Kel drops her extra pillow right on the top of his head. He tries to make a comment about it, but they can both hear the laughter leaking out from behind each word and it undermines any attempt he had at achieving righteous indignation.

Seemingly resigned, Neal takes the pillow and the blanket and babbles a string of increasingly incoherent noises of protestation as he drifts directly into sleep. Once he's gone, Kel uses the privacy of the room to test out a smile. It feels a little weak and strained, and she lets it go after only a few seconds. Sleep evades her as much as it ensnares Neal, and she finds herself playing with the edge of the blanket as bits and pieces of her day play across her thoughts.

_“Hey. You look like someone cancelled your Yule. Why the long face?”_

_“ – You think there's going to be a next time?”_

_“You think things are going to escalate?”_

_"I saw you and knew everything would be okay."_

_“Birdie –”_

The echoed voices and missing pieces chase her into a fitful sleep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're moving forward! The first spoilery information is revealed, and some of the turns and misleads are beginning to be ironed out. So, plot! That's the good news. The not so good news is now that I've caught up with Nano (20,000 words in three days! That's a record I'll never break again), updates likely won't be every day. I'm still definitely planning on finishing this thing, and I know where it's going to go, but I'm loving the format of a few long chapters instead of a ton of shorter ones. And since I might not be writing as much every day, it might take a few days between chapters. 
> 
> Also! I know this is an incredibly niche fandom (being the fusion of two already tiny fandoms), but I'd love love love to hear your thoughts on the story so far! Am I fooling anyone? Am I leading anyone to speculate! Let me know your thoughts! And let me know anything / anyone you want to see! I absolutely do not bite! 
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr: http://heartnowblossoming.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

Owen Jesslaw is the most competent person he knows.

 _Sure_ , you can debate that fact. Owen loves debating. He's a self proclaimed champion at it. In fact, he's so good that most of his debates are over in a minute. Flat! If that's not empirically impressive, he'll eat one of his favorite beanies. (And he will, don't test him on that.)

The obvious go-to is Roald, if you're trying to undermine Owen's claim of being the only one in his immediate peer ( _ish_ ) group with a level head on his shoulders. And, granted, Roald is practically perfect – the very model of a modern poli-ci major slash prince from a family that mostly attends state dinners and sits in on Parliament meetings when things get a little dicey and other countries need photographic proof that everything in Tortall is Fine and Dandy. Roald's fantastic, no doubt. Calm, serene, good sense of humor. But he has the tragic noble streak that really doesn't do much for him. Well, it does well for everyone _around_ him, but no one that bends over backwards and refuses to upset a single person can hardly be called _competent_.

Kel's another pretty solid rebuttal, but one that Owen can shut down in the same heartbeat that he shuts down Roald. Kel's not what one would call reasonable. Mostly because she's just _too_ reasonable. No one that's never binge watched the entirety of a television show or skipped even a day of healthy eating can be considered competent. That's so far to one of the spectrum, you just fall right off into madness.

No, Owen's absolutely the most competent person he knows. Period. No one else could manage to keep their entire friend group together, ace _all_ of their classes, put themselves on the fast track to law school, _and_ help their city's local superheroes all in one go. Because no one is as competent as Owen.

The footage of that day's capture finishes uploading with a cheery ding, and Owen swings around in his desk chair, eyes practically glowing with electricity as he dives into the file. It's some of his best work. He's never been this close before, but despite the proximity to the fight his hands were steady and, with a true artistic eye, his cinematography was out of this world. He could probably submit this to some film festival if it wasn't going to be this week's Hero Feed _piece de resistance_.

For a brief time at the beginning of the blog's life, it had been the Corus Currently (before that: the Corus Courantly, get it?, but that was a little too _avant garde_ for even the anti mainstream crowd he'd attracted), and had done pretty well all things considered. But the moment The Protector and Chevalier had appeared on the scene, Owen knew _precisely_ where his bread was buttered. He'd only kept up the pretense of reporting Corus news for a week or so before he transitioned entirely. Once he did, his readership had soared; what was once a side project read only by the university at large was now a local hub of information. And one that was even starting to pay the bills.

Still, he's not in it for the money. If advertisers see something worthy on his page, let them ask for slots and pictures. As long as it supports his journalism, he couldn't care in the slightest. Accommodating them is logical; reporting is _necessary_.

See? Competent.

Even now, hours later and having witnessed the fight firsthand, the footage is still gorgeous in every way and he can feel his heart continue to race with remembered exhilaration. While it plays on loop, Owen writes.

 

* * *

 

 

 

> There are things in this world that change us. The status quo is an unreachable goal, a kind of utopia unto itself. Reality is not governed by what stays, but by what comes and goes. Corus is a steadfast, strong city, but it is unrecognizable from its former self after each second that passes. The streets are lighter or darker, the clouds move, and the people –
> 
> Well, there is nothing so unrecognizable these days as Corus' citizens.
> 
> This world changes and changes us by the minute. But some events are so profound that they don't merely shift our perspectives or routines. Some events have the power to uproot us bodily from our lives and set us on new paths. They can even irrevocably divert the churning tides of history itself.
> 
> We all remember the day that The Spidren appeared, not because she was any such mastermind of evil, but because her entrance marked a much more significant one: the fist reported battle of The Protector and Chevalier.
> 
> If you're familiar with this city, then you already know the heroes about whom I write. And if you're familiar with this blog in any capacity, then you know almost as much about them as I do. As many have told me, I've never been one to hold back, and I will admit that I've spent the last almost-year in near constant, dogged journalistic pursuit. It's no easy task to follow around caped crusaders when they're almost as skilled at throwing you off their tail as they are at cleaning up Corus' wicked, supernaturally powered element.
> 
> You all know that I have gotten as close as anyone can get to the action, and I have the cinematic and photographic evidence to prove that. Until now, of course, I assumed that's what I'd continue to do for the the foreseeable future: follow the leads, listen to the news, and try to continue to predict the locations of our saviors while pushing forward as much as I'm able to. It's a solid plan, and I know that it's appreciated – if not by them, then by you, my readers old and new.
> 
> That _was_ the plan, until the monumental paradigm shift that was today. You've seen the title, you've seen the pictures, you've likely even seen the news already. Today is a vast difference in our little dance of reporter and reported, because today I had the honor of being caught in the dead center of the next city-and-history changing moment.
> 
> If you weren't already aware of Corus' masked defenders, you are now. No local news outlet has let coverage of the bloody rampage the man calling himself Player One had wrought earlier today. They're a little late to the party, and by little I mean there has been a woefully egregiously lack of coverage surrounded these two since day one. Only yours truly was on the scene to capture footage of that first, fate defining fight on film, and only my dedicated and loyal readers and viewers have been exposing the heroic, noble truth about them for almost a year.
> 
> Now they've captured the attention of the media beyond our control, and those stations are truly playing into their motto of _if it bleeds, it leads_. For almost a year, I and my contributors have attempted to remain as factually consistent as possible, and have reported on how careful and meticulous The Protector is to save lives, repair the city, and take down those criminals that would be impossible to apprehend without the addition of purifying powers. The Protector has lived up to her name in every possible way. She has been the signal beam of hope that cuts through our cloudiest, most doubt ridden days. She has stood up to the face of senseless violence and thwarted the schemes of villains that probably wished they had stayed in the Saturday morning cartoons they left behind. At every step of the way, The Protector has been everything we could need and nothing we've earned: our guardian, our defender, even our champion. Without her efforts, the citizens of Corus wouldn't have survived long enough to become the unrecognizable lot we are today.
> 
> Traditional news outlets are showing you a vision of carnage: Corus University in supposed shambles, toppled statues, a torn lawn, half of the library's facade missing. They're still showing recycled clips of EMT trucks and paramedics circling the campus like vultures, and detailing the same list of injuries and injured parties ad nauseum. I won't pretend that these individuals don't exist, of course, but in true Network fashion, this is only part of the story. This is only the part that can be stripped down, buzzworded, and sold to a public that doesn't care to be discerning in the face of easy access.
> 
> That is why I am here. I will give you the facts.
> 
> At 2:56 pm, TST, I was already recording for an unrelated project as I made my way towards the library. I had just crossed through the archway to the lawn when the first rumblings could be heard, an echoey thud that resonated across the campus of Corus University. The first shock was enough to disturb the books, papers, the ice in glasses.
> 
> For three minutes I, and my fellow students I'm sure, waited for the campus update system to automatically text us about what we assumed was an earthquake. If our hallowed institution got one thing right, it's its speed of communication. I cannot tell you the number of times a crime alert has woken me out of a deep, restful sleep. I am always glad to know the moment someone had their wallet stolen thirteen blocks off of campus.
> 
> The alert never came in. A lapse in judgement? A deficiency of the relay system? Or something more sinister? Some members of my group of friends, who will _not_ be named, laugh whenever I bring up the fact that something might be seriously amiss. Isn't is a silver lining, then, that when the shadow appeared, looming directly over the far end of the lawn's entrance, that I was vindicated in my assumption?
> 
> At 2:59 pm, TST, the monster first came into view. I was able to capture the very first glimpse of the thing – the thing that had, apparently, named itself Player One. If only I had naming rights as well as camerawork credits. But that is not the world in which we live.
> 
> It took the thing no time at all to cross the lawn, but it hesitated before actually stepping over the threshold and through the arch. I say through because the thing was taller than that arch and paid no heed to the fixture that has existed since the campus' inception. That first damage – the shattering of that Conte Gateway – took place a few seconds after my atomic clock read 3:00 pm.
> 
> The thing moved fast for its immense size, crossing the vast length of the long by the time my clock ticked to 3:01. By that time I'd abandoned my straight trajectory to the library and instead ducked behind the fountain in the center of the lawn. I realized that something was wrong – that something was _different_. Maybe it was the shock of watching something so sturdy and unchanging shatter into unrecognizable pieces, but as soon as the thing set foot on the lawn I knew that this would not be the same.
> 
> After looking around for a few seconds, no more than thirty, Player One seemed to decide that the order of the day was wanton destruction. It charged up the frankly ridiculous looking gun on its arm. Now I've played through just about every first person shooter they make; there shouldn't have been anything intimidating about a guy who was too nonsensically dressed to even appear in _Neopolois_. I don't know what I or anyone else expected when we heard the whine of a charging laser gun. Probably we all thought that we'd gotten off lucky – other enemies have used far more frightening weapons than something we've all taken a turn firing in _Inferno_. A toy laser gun was no collection of throwing knives or close range bombs, after all.
> 
> At 3:02 pm, TST, Player One destroyed the central fountain.
> 
> There was an erupting blaze of light that seemed to suck up all the sound across the whole campus. I thought that only happened in movies, that moment of silence before the explosion. But as much as I wrack my brain, I can't seem to remember even the slightest hum in the interim between the shot and the wreckage. Neither can anyone else, if my investigative efforts have proved accurate.
> 
> I don't remember any screams. And I don't think there were any. If there were, I would have noted them, or caught the distant echoes on film as I leapt away from the fountain just in time. Behind me, at 3:02 pm, I felt the fountain more or less disintegrate, flying apart in impossibly tiny pieces. I know that because when I looked back, my cover was entirely gone. The ground was soaked with water, infinitesimal shards of marble were scattered in an unbelievable radius – marble makes a very particular sound when it breaks. I don't think I'll ever forget it.
> 
> At precisely 3:03:27 pm, TST, Chevalier arrived.
> 
> _Yes_ , you read that correctly. You can scan the archives and my tags – it is an indisputably rare thing to see Chevalier on the scene first. Your first instinct might be doubt the authenticity of my claim, but check the video. You will see the same thing that I do: not just Chevalier's arrival, but The Protector's entrance as well. At 3:05:01 pm, she bursts onto the scene, weapon drawn and ready for battle.
> 
> The battle on the lawn lasted for seven full minutes. At 3:12 pm, Chevalier led Player One off campus under the impeccable leadership of The Protector. Due to the enormity of the battle, and the dying attention spans of even the most dedicated readers in this world, I've annotated the video for you rather than recount each play and blow here. Significant moments will trigger eye witness descriptions in the box below, so if you haven't watched it already I suggest taking a look.
> 
> At this point, I will admit to an unfortunate lapse of my sworn journalistic duties. Once the duo took off for the Haryse Woods, I decided that instead of following, I would survey and record the damage. You can see the damages themselves on the annotated video; in fact, you can see those damages on TNN, CBC, or any of the major news networks. You probably _won't_ see anything but those damages for a while. As readers of Hero Feed, I trust that you all can watch and synthesize this information and draw your own, _correct_ , conclusions.
> 
> I finished surveying at 3:17 pm, TST, and decided that it was high time to take my self sworn investigative oath seriously and track down the city's champions. On a normal day, this would be no small feat. But the drawback to being three times the size of a regular person is that you tend to leave a pretty clear trail behind you. I followed Player One's wake of destruction straight through towards the thicker part of the forest. At 3:19 pm, when I was nearly caught up, I was able to catch sight of that familiar white, purifying light shoot into the air and sweep across the tops of the trees, reaching out as if cognizant towards the campus.
> 
> In the name of candor, I will admit to a _moment_ of relief. If you haven't read about it here, then I'm sure you've at least seen The Protector's powers at work. With a single shot most, if not all, of the damage from any attack is immediately healed. I knew in that moment that the school and town behind me were safe. Fortified in my knowledge that everything would work out for the best, I continued my path.
> 
> Unfortunately, by the time I arrived The Protector was gone, as was Player One. Of course I didn't accept the desolate landscape at face value – what kind of reporter would I be if I did something like that? I waited, hunting around any alternative routes that The Protector might have taken back. I didn't find her, but after three minutes I _did_ find Chevalier. I'm entirely certain that my presence wasn't noticed. He was too preoccupied with his own state to notice much of anything, I'm sure.
> 
> I did not include this section of the video, and for that I'm sorry. The reasons for withholding the photographic evidence are my own, but I will say that after seeing Chevalier's state, I wonder if we will ever see him again.
> 
> This is the full and actual account of the day's events. You have at your disposal the entirety of this blog and all of its eyewitness recordings – nearly every battle that has been fought in the city of Corus has been captured on film and uploaded here with subtitles, notes, and descriptions. Additionally, you have the ability to flip through every medium of news available to you. I leave the pieces in your hands to determine what all of this means. What it amounts to.
> 
> Here is what this means to me: yes, the Corus University campus is bruised, battered, and scarred. Yes, I have close friends – family, for all intents and purposes – who are not walking away unscathed. I will continue to dream of the shattering of marble. I might even hear it while awake. Tomorrow, or whenever I return to class, I will likely walk by the still scorched and disassembled library facade.
> 
> But this is not all of my story. It's not even the most important part. The one thing above all that I will take away is that I am still able to dream of destroyed fountains. I am still able to see that wrecked library. I am alive and whole and in possession of everything I had when I woke up this morning. And everyone I know – every single person I have ever thought about, spoken with, held – will wake up again tomorrow, too.
> 
> What I take away is that there is not a single casualty that has come to light, even hours after the dust has settled.
> 
> I don't know what the future holds. You can taste the change like the charge of lightning in the air before it strikes. It's terrifying and completely exhilarating, because I know, without any shadow of a doubt, that we will be safe. Every tomorrow will come, and we will greet them together. Changed, sure. Hardened, maybe. But alive.
> 
> Alive because we have a Protector.

 

* * *

 

As he edits, Owen laughs. Yes, _definitely_ a little sentimental as his social journalism professor would say with a sneer. Shmaltzy, melodramatic, sensationalized. Editorialized. (“If you don't want editorials,” Owen had said once, “Don't teach a class about a narrative driven medium.”) It's exactly what Owen wants this piece to be. And besides, all of it's true – every thought and hope and feeling is precisely accurate. If he's parsed and chosen and exaggerated certain selections and thoughts? It's hardly _his_ fault if they'll be interpreted in a certain way.

The clues are carefully sewn, blended beautifully with moving odes and a storybook arc of hope and triumph. It's no less than The Protector deserves, after all. And this will accomplish exactly what it needs to.

Owen does not bother with his routine of near obsessive refreshing once he posts the story. In fact, he closes his laptop entirely (for which the laptop is probably grateful, seeing as how it hasn't been properly shut down in months) and climbs up into his makeshift loft where his personal projector is located. After successfully surviving, and documenting, an attack of this magnitude, he's more than earned a night of rewatching the director's cut of Frank's 82nd while annoying either Roald or Cleon into joining him via incessant text message.

Because all that's left to do now is wait.

See?

Competent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another year, another chapter! Owen was surprisingly difficult to write - can't wait (spoiler alert!) for his next POV chapter! 
> 
> As always, reviews fuel my life & my creative spirit! And you can visit my tumblr http://heartnowblossoming.tumblr.com if you want to discuss!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corus reacts.

The university remains closed for the next three days, right through the weekend, and while Roald appreciates the logic behind the decision, some distant, often quelled voice deep within his heart protests. Despite most of his family's present trip abroad, the palatial estate is full of people – maids, valets, managers, even many of his father's business advisors remain in his his absence. And Liam is there as well.

It's as unbearably suffocating as it is lonely.

He'd spent the night of the attack with Liam, both of them curled up in the informal den, watching a movie in silence that was decidedly idiosyncratic of them only and not the Conte genes at large. Liam had suggested the activity, and Roald had felt his heart melt a little at his brother's tacit, earnest effort to amend the situation. Especially given how Liam had handled every minute detail during the fallout: calling their father, directing the video chats, even managing the house staff. Liam's expression, usually etched into a permanently defensive scowl, had transformed, and watching his little brother affect the air of Conte royalty he often struggled with was as touching as the offer to spend the night in.

So they'd settled in to watch, Roald drifting in and out of his own thoughts, Liam determinedly staring at the screen and not at Roald. Occasionally, Roald would look down at his hands and track the way the changing light from the television played over his skin, turning it blue and purple and bright white in turns.

But that was yesterday. Today, Liam has been at school, or out studying, or out with friends trying to seem more rebellious than he is as per his usual  _ modus operandi _ . And Roald is in his room, staring at the email from the university on his phone. He had expected as much – and he had also correctly predicted the arrival of three different messages from the university's president apologizing to  _ him _ , personally. As if  _ he _ was the one who deserved or even needed the extra attention.

He has a reply drafted, proofread carefully a number of times to make sure that it conveys the right mixture of gentleness and royal aloofness. The latter always give him enough trouble that he knows he can't ever send his first draft. While he might not blame the university in the slightest, there is a procedure to these things that doesn’t include an accidental pardon. His father would never forgive him if he accidentally pardoned someone without a thorough examination of the situation and its proper ramifications.

(He never personally argued with his father, but a number of his siblings did. Before Liam had entered this new phase of his life, this predictably teenage way of asserting boundaries and frowning as if the world has wronged him, he’d have the energy and desire to tell the king that  _ does it matter? We’re not really the government, we can’t do anything _ . Kally, by contrast, would laugh,  _ do we really make the rules? Does that mean I can travel to Carthak? Make a holiday? Get a car? _ )

Still, even though the reply is perfectly crafted and meticulously edited, Roald cannot bring himself to find his drafts folder and send it. After staring at the screen for another five full minutes, his thumb instead finds the power button and the lights wink into darkness.  

Roald does not know what he’d say to his father if he ever worked up the nerve, but for the first time since he was eight, he thinks about it.

Kally’s desire to study abroad is not a well kept secret. He’d feel worse about confiding bits and pieces of what she’s going through to close friends but - it’s not like Kally’s been silent about it, telling everyone who’ll listen about the countries she’d visit if  _ someone _ (and the way she calls their father  _ someone _ is so much hers alone) would let her. And it really is only bits and pieces that Roald has shared - Kally wants to go, but there’s too much work to be done here. Not great if it hits the press, but little more than insubstantial gossip.

Even his venting is carefully crafted.

The soundbite doesn’t account for the lines that have gathered around the corners of his eyes and ringed his mouth. It doesn’t account for the way he can feel his father’s temper and tiredness rising to the surface, turning him angrier and older than Roald’s ever known him as. It doesn’t account for Liam’s newly found rebellious streak or their mother’s worry, once so neatly hidden but now too large and pained to hide. It doesn’t account for Kally throwing herself onto Roald’s bed when their parents are out and the nosier staff are gone, her airiness shattering under the weight of what she holds in her heart, crying herself scarlet and breathless and choking out pleas neither of them can do anything about -  _ it’s not fair, we don’t even do anything, why was I ever born I never asked for this _ .

He wonders if he’s concealed the signs of his fatigue on his face well enough, or if anyone’s noticed. Neal’s sharp - he might see them. But even if he didn’t have the tact of someone too far above the common rabble to care about their perception of him, then they have been friends too long for Neal to remain quiet. On either count, he’d say something. Merric might be slower to mention it to his face, but they also see each other less frequently and it’s unlikely he’s picked up on the hopefully subtle signs. And Owen moves just a little too fast to take in the finer details over the big picture.

That only leaves Kel. He’s sure she knows, but it’s also Kel, so he can’t really mind.

For one wild second, Roald imagines asking her what she’d say to his father, knowing how much their family is threatening to fall apart at the seams under the pressure of titles and memories of power that hasn’t been real in the last hundred years. There’s no one more sympathetic, more warm hearted, more prepared to step up to bat for those who can’t do it themselves. But, as terrible as it feels to admit it, he can also hear her calm, reasonable voice - and the very thought of calm and reasonable makes him  _ burn _ . Knowing full well that borrowing Neal’s unreserved, Black-God-may-care flippantness would get him just short of exiled, Roald fantasizes about sharing in it just the same. Fantasizes about finding something wickedly cutting to say, designed to slice under the skin and hook itself there, chafing for days on end.

Still, in the end he is neither reasonable Kel nor brazen Neal. He’s - just Roald.

He turns his phone back on but instead of his email, he opens Hero Feed.

The alert had pinged some time ago, alerting him to the newly published story so he expects the splashy, vibrant photograph that fills his screen. For once, the title is brief:  _ What’s Next? _ And for its brevity, particularly compared against the wordier one’s in the blog’s archives, it stands out all the more - grabbing the reader’s attention as much as the vivid, almost chilling image of the red, armored akuma lunging for something offscreen. Roald’s lip flicker up in the corner without his realizing as pride glows fiercely in his chest. Owen has come such a long way, hasn’t he?

Roald thinks so. He thinks so as he reads the post, the article, the facts twined so neatly and inextricably with an emotion that Roald is not sure he’s ever been able to express properly in his life. Following the events again, this time bundling them with the swooping fear and soaring triumph and starry eyed gratitude that Owen laces between word - it’s not just pride in his chest anymore. His instinct is to swallow down the knot of what he feels, lest it bleed over into his expression. Give away that the is, in fact, human.

He laughs.

Which is a poor way of describing how, a few seconds after he finishes the last word, Roald bends practically in half, smacking his head against his knees with the force of the sound that grips him. It’s a scream, high and long and jagged in the way that laughter bounces. But then it’s all tied up with a yell, with his face growing redder by the moment as tears threaten to breach his lower eyelids -

But why the hell  _ shouldn’t _ they? Who is here to see him, Crown Prince Roald Conté of Tortall in her Sovereignty, lose his composure and howl with laughter and keening sobs? And even if they were - as Liam would ask, as Kally, what does it matter? What does it all mean, Crown Prince, King Jonathan, the royal family, in the face of what they have seen today?

Who is he, anyway?

Roald’s pushing himself off the bed, ignoring the gentle throbbing at his temple, as he scrubs one hand across his face and, without letting himself overthink, pulls up a contact on his phone and dials it. Such is the fervor wrapped around him that he almost forgets to put the phone to his face - not until he hears the tinny voice on the other end and he scrambles.

“‘F someone’s callin’ from this number -” The voice is saying in Roald’s silence. 

“Hello? Major Smythesson?”

“- Highness?” Coram must recognize his voice but his is still wary. Roald does not blame him. To be perfectly honest, he’s a stranger to himself in this moment.

“Major Smythesson, I need a favor from you.”

“You, uh -”

In that moment, Roald remembers that Coram always flounders like this, when they’re not in a rhythm and he has to remember his manners for whatever gods-cursed reason they matter. He almost laughs again and then he almost cries again but in the end instead of either, he saves Coram the trouble by cutting him off.

“I know it’s been a while and I’m probably terribly out of practice, but would you mind terribly resuming lessons with me?”

The request is probably strange from every angle, not the least of which is the fact that Roald has never cut anyone off in his life. He wouldn’t blame Coram for struggling with this. But to his relief and surprise and joy and trepidation, he doesn’t.

“The king wants you to start again?”

“No. Just me.”

“Y’er highness -”

“I’ll pay you. I’ll work around your schedule. No one has to know.” Roald is not as skilled as Owen with lacing meaning into his words, so it’s a clumsy and pale attempt to say that no one  _ can _ know that the Prince is once again training in self defense after the few young years when it had been state mandated.

He knows what he’s asking. What position he’s putting Coram into - how the retired Major already risked his neck for the King’s Champion all those years ago and doesn’t need to skirt another dangerous line for something so petty. It feels cruel and domineering, to ask so much of a man who’d probably rather be enjoying his peace and quiet -

“Oh-Five-Hundred tomorrow, at the gym. I can give y’ an hour. ‘F y’er late, that’s y’er time.”

Once more the desire: to laugh, to cry.

“O-oh - Oh, yes! Of course, at five. Thank you!”

“Ah, don’t think on it, y’er highness. - Not surprised you called.”  

“You - You’re not?”

“Always saw somethin’ in y’. Get a good night’s rest tonight. You’ll need it.”

Roald hangs up, a little struck as he watches the screen of his phone turn dark. He is no stranger to expectations -  _ I know you’ll do well, I’d be surprised if there were issues _ . It should twist him to know that Coram, too, saw something in him.

But it’s not something that Roald ever knew someone else could see.

 

* * *

“No way, you didn’t want to be there. You might think you did, but you really didn’t. That was - somethin’ else.”

“Yeah, somethin’ that you had to  _ be there to understand _ , am I right?”

Merric doesn’t bother to hide his groan, choosing to level a particularly nasty glare at Cleon rather than throw yet another pillow fruitlessly at his head. Not because they haven’t landed - gods know Cleon’s not great at dodging - but because they seem to do jack all to shut him up. Built like a brick house, indeed.

“You  _ saw _ the video,” Merric says, “We were lucky no one  _ died _ .”

“But no one did and now you all get to share in a bonding experience that, once  _ again _ , I have missed out on.”

“I can’t believe you.”

He wonders why he thought he had any hope of winning this argument. Debates (and Merric’s using that term lightly, thanks very much) with Cleon usually feel more like endlessly circling a drain than anything else. Which is probably the point. Can you lose an argument you don’t let anyone gain the upper hand in? If Merric wasn’t so annoyed, he might give him credit for that. Clever bastard.

Cleon’s gone back to the post (gods, Owen, you decide to hold back and go with a delicate touch this time?) and Merric can hear the sounds of the bites and clips that litter the page. He doesn’t need a reminder. He was lucky enough to be outside the danger radius the first time around, turning on his heel and hiding a block away from the entrance until the smoke cleared, half convinced the akuma would give up on the school and hit the streets.

“Owen’s really grown a pair,” Cleon says, still scrolling through the page. “How close did he get? He’s lucky his head’s still on his shoulders.”

“Jury’s out on that, to be honest. And you’re just realizing that now?” They have Owen protocols for a reason - the emergency bail, medical, what have you fund should be renamed the emergency Owen fund.

“Nah, I mean -” Cleon waves a hand, sighing before he looks up. “Yeah, he’s little wild -”

“A  _ little _ ?”

“But dude,  _ look _ at this.”

Merric has looked at this, thanks very much, and if he was really inclined to watch his school get destroyed again, which he is not, he’d bring it up on his laptop. But Cleon’s shoving it in his face anyway, video paused. Merric moves to hit play.

“No, leave it. Look.”

“What’s there to look at on a paused screen...” It’s mostly blurry - swaths of red and green in motion, and that only thing of note is the projectile, some shrapnel hovering right over the camera. Merric glances at Cleon then back down - then back up, eyes wide.

“- Oh.”

“Yeah. He’s right in it. Really  _ could _ have lost his head right there.”

Merric had not doubted the ferocity of the attack today but realizing just how close his friend had been sends a new kind of chills down his spine that feel like rusted, freezing metal. He resents it, a little.

“Kid puts us to shame.”

What? Apparently, that’s written in his expression because Cleon explains, “I mean, I know  _ we _ don’t have superpowers, but neither does he. And he’s there anyway, right in the middle of it, doing what he can.”

“Filming,” Merric says. But Cleon nods anyway.

“Yeah. It’s still something, y’know?”

He doesn’t want to say it out loud but the answer seizes him with a desperate fervor,  _ yes, he knows _ . Some part of him that he didn’t know had been aching is soothed for a few seconds. It’s not often he thinks about the masked duo, doesn’t feel the need to, but he finds a kindness towards them that he’d never quite felt before. And when he tries to think of them taking down the akuma guy, he just thinks about Owen in the middle of it, filming it.

Fantastic. It’s bad enough when Cleon’s right - he has to add  _ Owen _ to that list now?

Launching himself off the couch, Merric crosses the room and puts both hands on Cleon’s shoulders, staring him dead in the eye, unyielding.

“We can  _ never _ let Owen you said that.”

“But -”

“ _ Operation Dogstar _ .”

Cleon pales, then nods. “Noted.”

Merric lets go then grabs his phone. “I’m calling Lalasa.”

“Why - ?”

“We’re doing little things, right? Then that means we have to knock this party out of the park.”

The Protector and Chevalier are keeping them alive, right? Isn’t that the point? Then they might as well live.

 

* * *

Lalasa has seven windows open on her computer and she navigates them with absolutely no hesitation, rapidly clicking, dragging, and typing as she listens to the voice on the other end of her phone call.

“Why would I  _ mind _ , Merric? Do you know who you’re speaking with?”

“We want you to have  _ fun _ too -”

“Merric Hollyrose!” Her lips draw into a firm, almost-pout, and she hopes that Merric can hear the expression in her voice. “How could I  _ ever _ have fun if I knew that you’d gotten someone else to do a terrible job of decorating?”

“Ah, well, I guess you’re right.”

“You  _ guess _ ?”

She tries not to laugh when she hears him fumble over an apology. While she’d never make him go through with it, it’s nice to know that she hasn’t lost her touch - lovingly trained by Kel and now owned entirely by herself. Besides, this is her pride. Like she’d ever let anyone do what  _ she _ can do so much better.

Smoothly cutting him off, she says, “Now you’re going to have to get me the key, and make sure you take care of everything else. If he wants to get in early to set up, then everyone needs to be there even  _ earlier _ .”

“Got it.”  

Lalasa releases a breath, then brings up another picture on the screen. “Now the present. I have the design you sent me. No more changes?”

“Not unless you see anything weird.”

“Oh, well in  _ that _ case…”

On the other end, Merric laughs. “Yeah, I get it. It’s gonna be blank if I let you do that.”

“You read my mind, Merric Hollyrose.”

“Figured.” The laugh is still in his voice, and for just a moment, Lalasa takes comfort in it. “Is it going to be too much, on top of everything else?” 

“We  _ just _ went over this.”

“Okay! Sorry, sorry. Just - wanted to check.”

Pausing to take a deep, steadying breath, Lalasa straightens her spine even though there is no one around to see. “This party is going to be  _ excellent _ . As long as you take care of your end. Mine will be impeccable.”

“I believe it. And I won’t let you down.”

Huffing a little laugh herself, she replies, “I know you won’t. Talk to you later.”

“Later.”

Even after she hands up and she is alone in her apartment, surrounded by fabric and crafting materials and the smell of industrial glue that intimates to the things she has constructed by hand, Lalasa refuses to cave into her worry. She pointedly does not pick up her phone to call Kel, again, knowing full well that no matter how much she might want to care, it’s only driving Kel up a wall. And if Nealan truly  _ is _ alright (something with Lalasa chooses to believe in) then he’ll keep enough of an eye on Kel for the both of them.

Sure, there’s not much she can do, living on her own, separated by time and distance. But  _ not much _ and  _ nothing _ are not the same. She has a list - a call to her printer, some design adjustments, a lunch date with Yuki to get all the ducks in order, perhaps a little time carved out this evening to pay Tian less attention than she deserves but more than Lalasa is usually able to give.

Time is moving on and she has a party to construct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make some joke about it not being a year because the last chapter came out in January, then I realized that it was January 2016. Well, then. 
> 
> catch me on tumblr, heartnowblossoming.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> I'd say things, but then I'd spoil things and we don't want that. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr: http://heartnowblossoming.tumblr.com
> 
> Find me on Nano: http://nanowrimo.org/participants/shesolvedyou


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